


We’ve Got Wedding Sirens, For Our Welcome

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [4]
Category: Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos)
Genre: A/B/O verse, Album: Arena (Duran Duran), Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Babies, Band, Band Fic, Blow Jobs, Boats and Ships, Break Up Talk, Bubblegum Weddings, Car Sex, Closet Sex, Cock Tease, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Drinking to Cope, Drowning, Escaping Death, Falling In Love, Family Planning, Flamingos, Food Kink, Growing Up, Hand Jobs, Humor, Jealousy, Jewellery shopping, Kissing in the Rain, Loneliness, Love Confessions, M/M, Make Up, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Men Crying, Morning After, Music Video Shoots, Music Videos - Freeform, Next step, Rings, Rough Sex, Self destruction, Self-Medication, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Atop A Car, Smoking, Strip Tease, Tablets, Weddings, Wild Boys - Freeform, boys in make up, men kissing, mtv, strip club, top of the pops, whip cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 40,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25426303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Prequel to We Danced Into The FireRiding the outside lane will get John nowhere, he’s never wanted to be tied down with a marriage and children. Until the day comes where he starts to change his mind.He’ll have Simon forever, even though the band continues to fracture, won’t he?Begins with Roger and Nick’s weddings, straight through to the recording of Wild Boys and the release of Arena.
Relationships: Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 96
Kudos: 38





	1. Wild Boys, Always

**Author's Note:**

> This whole story has come a lot earlier than planned, skipping my Big Thing tale in the queue.
> 
> It’s strange writing the prequel now, trying to work out where JoSi once stood: knowing what will happen.
> 
> I hope, if there are any of my readers out there who are still as enthusiastic about this canon like myself, this will all be worth it. It’s a challenging time for Duran as a whole, it’s not just John who’s (again) breaking.

_Friday July 27th, 1984_

_Naples, Italy_

Smiling, he rolled over onto his naked side, with a face full of gorgeous morning sunlight to thaw his sleeping, icy figure. John shot a hand out, feeling about the bed, now a grimace was forming on his face. He was alone. Tiredness swept his heavy body, he could barely peel open his eyes. He rammed his head back into his pillow, gaze flickering open slightly as the sunlight again overtook him; dancing over his pale complexion and helping to ease him from his slumber.

His head was pounding, he probably shouldn’t have gone so hard at last night’s ‘last night of freedom’ celebration. Not that the groom had stayed there more than one hour, nursing a _Cherry Cola_. John frowned upon the memory, he was practically glued to Simon the whole night; though he could sense his better half was slipping from him. He wasn’t drinking, Simon – of course John couldn’t say _no_ , he had been trying to shuck an increasingly inebriated John off of his arm. Though, if cloudy memory served him right, the bassist himself hadn’t budged.

“Simon, luv?”

Shaking his head, now somewhat having risen up to his elbows; he blinked rapidly through the straw-like mish mash of hair that was plastered to his forehead. _Damn heat_ – he scoffed, swatting his blonde fringe away.

“ _Simon?!_ ”

He was met by a grunt. John cocked his head, barely able to make out the time on his watch which lay abandoned on the bedside table. _09:40 something, probably,_ they still had a couple hours of peace.

“Charlie,” it was slightly muffled, “c’mere.”

“No, get up, take your tablets, go shower and put your lenses in.”

John’s brows raised in haste, he waved Simon off halfheartedly; somehow not falling back into his pillows to drift back off. The hotel bed was working wonders on his aching back, he couldn’t quite peel himself away just yet.

“John, move your arse.”

Sighing, rubbing at his good for nothing eyes, John uttered: “kiss me, g’mornin?”

There was another frustrated grunt from his left.

“Simon, luv, what’s wrong?” He fumbled with his glasses, then caught sight of the blonde mane. Simon had turned away from him and was pawing through John’s suitcase. “Why are you, you know, already dressed? We ‘ave _hours_ , don’t we?”

Simon answered in kind, tossing John a black button down shirt.

“Get up, tablets, shower, lenses.” He repeated the mantra, not looking the bassist’s way. “Don’t _drink_ them.”

Puzzled, “drink them? As in like… _oh_.”

“I’m not helping you cough ‘em back up.”

Coughing, hoping it would repress that painful memory of one of their first nights together back home: “Luv, what’s _wrong?_ ” John couldn’t fully mask the worry that was filling him. Simon always kissed him good morning, especially after a fiery night of passionate whatever the hell. He would hardly ever wake up alone, laying solitary in their bed.

Their five star _hotel_ bed, whatever.

“I just,” Simon paused as he caught John’s cream blazer from falling off of it’s velvet hanger, “don’t want to be late, John, okay. It’s a big day.”

“‘Kay,” the bassist muttered, unconvinced, too tired to argue.

John began to slip from the baby blue sheets. They were littered with gold, fancy swirls and embroidery. He couldn’t help but run his fingertips across the slightly rough detail, grimacing as he felt the little grooves of the fine beadwork brush up against his calloused palms.

He was always a little mesmerised by satin sheets, had been since he was a baby.

_Wow, weird link there._

Now, in a disarrayed heap of a man slumping up against the wall, John shook the last of his blonde fringe free from his eyes and caught sight of Simon again.

_Baby, get it?_

“You don’t need to be so uh, you know, _hostile_.” John uttered before he could stop himself. _Luv?_

He was sure Simon swore at him, he couldn’t quite make out the muffled sound.

With a huff, he strut straight over to his front man; who was mumbling something about _where’s those ruddy shoes?_ and John yanked him by the mullet, up to meet him. Whirling Simon around, John smirked inwardly at seeing the momentary surprise coat the singer’s tan face, the widened sapphire eyes and parted lips.

John was sure, head still a little cloudy, that Simon was nervous. He was best man after all, he had far more responsibility than John did for this Duran on the most important day of said Duran’s life.

Without warning, or a proper breath, John slammed his lips into Simon’s own; pleading inwardly for his alpha to get it, to take the hint and to simply _relax_.

_Don’t do it._

“Mmhmm, luv…”

_When you wanna come!_

John pulled away with a full and cheeky grin that radiated his elation and pride at getting Simon to pause for three seconds to melt into his arms. Thankfully, the singer cracked a teeny smile and John’s winter was welcomed back into Simon’s heat. The second kiss was much slower, more controlled, Simon regaining his dominance over John as their mouths rocked in time. Savoured.

“Better?” John cocked a brow, still locked tightly into Simon’s embrace.

Rolling his light eyes, Simon pushed John away from him, pointing to the en-suite. “ _Go_ , you stink.”

“Of what?!” John sniffed his pits, coming up with nothing.

“Stale hairspray.”

“Well played.” John scoffed in mock agreement.

“We haven’t got all day,” Simon barked at him, already back to grabbing John some fresh underwear and socks.  
  


“I would say you wanna join me in there but uh,” John’s voice fizzled out at the glare Simon gave him. “I’ll just, you know, jerk myself off in there then.”

Pouting, spinning around on his heel, John grumbled to himself: “yeah _much_ better, Charlie… you wanker.”


	2. Please, Please Tell Me Now

An hour or so had passed, John was stood before the still steamy bathroom mirror. He was fumbling about with his concealer, cursing silently that his so-called ‘time of the month’ had to hit _now_. In Italy. On their holiday. Well _wedding_ /reception/holiday thing.

_Duran getaway without all the Duranies._

Eyes widening, he sent a look to his black toiletry bag; contents spewing out of it all over the sink. He took hold of two sets of tablets, downing them with a small cough.

“ _Goddamnit!_ ”

Back to his face. John was sure to pay extra special attention to the dark circles that rounded his doe-eyes and the puffy cheeks could use a hint of ruby blush to make them pop. Wishing Nick was beside him to help him through, or Simon to cheer him on, John momentarily battled his pasty pink lip gloss. He knew Simon would kill him if he got some makeup, of all things, on his perfectly perfect cream suit. Today of all days.

“You look… _yeah_.” Rolling his eyes, John surveyed his figure in the mirror. “Fuck it.”

With a huff, a couple significant other style stealing pouts and smoulders at his own reflection later; John deemed himself ready. Tossing away his mascara, eyeliner and assorted hair products, mullet teased and fringe back combed more so than strictly necessary, John shoved his toiletries to one side and bid his reflection a final goodbye.

Falling out of the bathroom door, John caught sight of Simon slumped over on the bed.

“You okay, luv?” _What’s with the mood?_ John practically fell to his side, wrapping a lanky arm around the singer’s suited frame.

_What did I do, this time?_

“Yeah,” he bucked John off. “Yeah, you ready to go?”

_What didn’t I do, this time?_

Wanting to greet Simon with that blinding smile that made thousands of screaming teens weak in the knees, to lighten the mood, John found that he just couldn’t. Instead, he bit into his bottom lip, tasting the lipstick cherry (that very nearly coated his lens when he had dropped it and his glasses had been in harms way) and murmured:

“Do I look the way, you want me to look?You know, _presentable?_ ” 

“Presentable, really John?”

Letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, John himself cracked a small smile that met the tiny one that had crept over Simon’s peachy lips.

“Just _relax_ luv, Roger’s countin’ on you.” Sniggering, John’s lips pressed it into Simon’s neck; brushing his smooth skin. “Got the rings?” Simon nodded. “Good. Don’t cock it up,” he kissed those final ‘re-assuring’ words, into Simon’s temple, chuckling softly as a groan dropped from Simon’s lips.

Pulling away, now side by side, broadened brown eyes fixing onto a wide and pining blue: they felt the beat, writing a new rhythm as Simon’s lips took hold of John’s. John was sure, these simple moments of intimacy would help ease Simon through the day.

He only wished, praying to the divinity of the cathedral that would be welcoming them that afternoon, that John could stay right here. With Simon’s hand in his, lips never faltering in their hold.

“Why don’t you, you know, go check on Nick,” John paused, lips brushing Simon’s knuckles with feathery kisses, “ _he’s_ the one ya should be worryin’ about being on time. Not me, luv.”

Unable to stifle the little beam of glee that coated his face upon seeing Simon chuckle, John couldn’t help but stare into those heavenly blues even deeper. More than ready to be swept off of his feet.

“I wanna…” John stumbled, thoroughly lost in those heavenly blues now, “c-call… what’s his face… guitar man.”

Another chuckle dropped free, “ _Andy_.”

It took John a moment to draw his attention away from the halo that was surely gleaming around Simon’s golden mane. He nodded.

“Okay.” Was when their moment broke, Simon sounding gruff again.

Another breath and the singer was on his feet, John watched him double check his pockets, gaze fleeting over the dressing table.

“Call me when the cars get here, ‘kay?”

“Okay, Johnny.”

Shutting the door behind him, John could’ve sworn he felt a shiver. The one he always felt when Simon’s little pet name graced his lips. Another couple moments of wallowing in the feeling, how his stomach flipped and the butterflies began to settle in, John slumped back over the bed and began to crawl up it: the phone in his sights.

Making the collect call, not fussed about spending a couple extra euros, negotiating the dial, John rattled off Andy’s home phone number.

Thankfully Andy picked up within the first few rings.

“Hey, man, how’s it goin’?”

John knew that with a heavy heart, Andy had to stay put.

“Is baby hangin’ _in_ there?”

Andy and his loving wife Tracey were almost ready to greet the first Duran miracle into the world, he would be having a little Wild Boy or Girl any day now.

“I really… _miss_ you, you know? … Bastard, stop laughing! I ain’t _cryin’_?! Yet.”

It was too risky to fly, John could understand that, Andy couldn’t miss the opportunity should the newest Taylor choose to arrive early.

“Cryin’… over uh,” he paused, licking his lips in that painfully slow and meticulous fashion, “o-over _Rog_ , yeah, over you know… Froggie bein’ off the market.”

They changed their tune, sensing the floodgates. John asked about Tracey and even managed to say hello to her. She sounded good, spritely per the norm.

“That’s good, Tracey, keep us updated if anythin’ happens... okay yeah, not _you_ per se but that no good _husband_ o’ yours!”

John was mentally counting down the days until he could see his right hand guitar man in the flesh again.

“Hey hey, uh, Ands, you got a minute? I need your advice on… y’know… _Simon_.”

There was a cackle on the other end of the line.

“N-no, not about _sex_ stuff, shut your gob! It’s more uh, uh…”

John stalled. He had no idea how to finish that sentence. Was he worried about Simon’s flaky behaviour with him today?

“No! Not ‘aving any babies yet! Shut your trap! That’s your department, buddy.” He cackled, putting on a brave face.

The way he and Simon had spoken to each other?

“Huh, what? Oh... oh yeah, don’t worry. Taken them for this month, yeah.”

_These people, keeping tabs on me. I swear!_

The front man and the apparent nerves, that usually would never phase him? John wasn’t sure.

“Oh, uh, _bollocks_ sorry Ands, I… I phased out a moment.”

The next step? Phase? Moving on, together?

“Y-yeah; uh. Actually you know what, I’ve probably gotta go anyways,” he flicked his wrist, eyes broadening upon the realisation. “Cars should be here to take us to the cathedral any moment, gotta take a piss and grab me stuff.” He rambled on.

_A home life, with Charlie?_

“Yeah, it’ll be a long-ass ceremony. Might keep Simon’s bloody _Walkman_ handy!”

_Not living out of a suitcase._

“Tell that little _bugger_ of yours to stay put, I wanna be there when it happens… Uncle _Tigger_ , yeah.”

John bid Andy goodbye with a sigh. He really wished that the three Taylors could’ve embarked on Roger’s journey together, he really wasn’t looking forward to taking photographs as the Fab _Four_ – _they are the Liverpool lads, not our Brummie bunch!_ \- it just wasn’t right. Andy should be included.

He didn’t quite put the phone down, letting the dial tone ring out for a moment or two. John’s head suddenly felt heavy. He threw himself further up the bed, pondering, pondering everything from himself to Simon, having all his gear for the day, to Simon, what poses and pouts to use, to Simon, to…

“It’s a weddin’, people get emotional,” John blinked, wondering why he could feel that familiar prick behind his eyelids. “It’s a _wedding_ in i-in uh, in _Naples_ … a beautiful freakin’ _cathedral_ … one that I, fuck,” a stray tear pelted his face, there was no time to redo his makeup. “That I’ll… _never_ have.”

_Why are they all getting married so young anyways?_

John hadn’t noticed when he had started rubbing at a certain finger on a certain hand, perhaps he was just picking a delightful present – _ruddy scab_ – from his prized black bass.

_It’s bleeding dominoes. One Duran after the next._

“Goddammit, Andy!” He coughed, another hot streak pelting the suit he wore.

_Who’s next after Nicky? Only Charlie and I are left, there’s not a chance in hell its…_

“ _Fuck!_ ” John groaned out, hiding his face in his hands.

_Andy Hamilton. He’ll do. Steve or Jonathan? Andy’s baby brother Ronnie?_

The blaring ring of the phone almost made John drop off of the bed in surprise.

_Wait no, not Ronnie. He’s too young. Can Simon’s brothers form a line, or?_

“Hey, luv yeah… okay I’m comin’, just gotta take a piss and then I—”

There wasn’t a chance in hell it would be them, right? John knew he definitely didn’t want that, he couldn’t keep Simon tied down to him _forever_.

“— yeah, okay, see you in reception. Love you.”

_The other Simon._

“No, I love _you_ more, Charlie. Crap, is the groom with ya? He didn’t do a runner, did he?!”

He couldn’t keep Simon by his side, right? Forever, in this foolish lover’s game?

_My Simon._

He hung up.

“Forever, huh?”


	3. Sing Blue Silver

“H-hey wait! Hold the door!” - _Bleedin’ good for nothing chauffeur who don’t speak English_ – “wait!”

With a hasty hand on his shirt, tucking himself back in, John sprinted across the hotel reception floor. Running into countless pissed Italian aristocracy, it seemed, losing sight of the wedding party up ahead.

“Nigel, glad you could join us.”

“Can it, Nick,” John shoved on his sunglasses and pouted in another silent retaliation.

Nick, he glanced over, for once had actually beaten him. Though, unlike John, Nick probably wasn’t so hell bent on checking in with the fifth Duran that morning…

“‘Eh, what?” John cocked his glance, asking him to repeat himself.

“You look splendid, though you _could’ve_ paired a lovely white tie with that cream number.” Nick gestured widely, pastel pink lips quirking upwards as John visibly reacted to him.

  
_You weren’t there to tie it for me,_ _were you, Master Bates?_ \- he didn’t say.

“ _Wanker_ ,” the bassist refrained from clipping him around the back of the pretty head. “Charlie happens to think I look _presentable_.” John stretched out the last word more so than his lips into a huge shit-eating grin. “And it meets Rog’s colour palette that _you_ forced upon ‘im just _fine_.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet he does.” Nick scoffed, turning to look out the window.

They were separated by a wall of fancy cars, the two of them alongside a few of the roadies who John had helped get across. The flights and hotels were next to nothing for him, barely a dent to his purse strings, though for the crew: a weeklong get away plus wedding gifts could prove quite the task. John and Andy, from back in the UK, were more than happy to pitch in.

Sensing the sudden silence, letting Nick embrace the men at his sides, John leant back into the plush leather seats of the Rolls Royce – _of course, what else for Rog? Alright alright, for me. You arse!_ – and his eyes fell to his right.

_Sing siiiiiiiiing,_

He rolled down the window as his pinky lips clamped down on a cigarette.

_Bluuuuee Silveeuuuurrrr!_

The scene was surreal. Absolutely surreal. The cars interweaved through cliffs, through greenery, all of which glimmered under the summer sunlight. The shore, he admired from afar, thoroughly sparkled under the light, it was blinding. Blinding but tranquil.

_No, I’m hot high. That’s really what it looks like! Don’t even go there._

The architecture was of another entity entirely. John adored that about the new countries he got to visit on the road, though he could never stay put for more than a day. And that day, no matter how hectic he may anticipate the schedule to be, was never full of sight seeing. It was all full of fancy wine and women, rehearsals and after parties. Plus the show itself, of course. They never truly had the chance to discover and enjoy the countless cities. So, in one way or another, John was thrilled that Roger and his blushing bride Giovanna had chosen to go back to her roots and go down the church route.

  
_Again, it’s really real. That I’m sure of!_

It meant he got an actual holiday out of it all, he would be using his time here in Naples to its fullest.

_No, that isn’t selfish..._

“How much further?” He heard Nick ask, rich Brummie tones sure to get a little lost in translation.

Oh hell, Andy _still_ got Nick lost in translation. After four tiring years full of bickering.

Their chauffeur muttered something, John simply shrugged.

Only when he caught sight of the dome, simmering jade in the sunlight, did John begin to put piece and piece together. And flick his cigarette out the window.

One by one each guest clambered out of their cars, John getting hit full force by the striking heat. He debated whether to take his jacket off, a single glance Nick’s way (and the frown the keyboardist wore) told John to grin and bare it a little longer.

A fair few special people in Roger’s life were to be present at the ceremony, John himself hunting high and low for Roger himself as he and Nick began the descent towards the cathedral. The roads were winding, cobblestones hot under his feet. Every chance John got, he would toss his head back to catch another glimpse of the city around him buzzing to life. The dashing architecture, a mixture of rich marble and stone. He could only begin to catch a whiff of the history here, with the famous Pompeii and site of Mount Vesuvius not too far away.

He also really craved some pasta, a calzone... anything.

Secretly, John was hunting for any sight of Simon. His better half had left before he and Nick, with Roger on side. John was yet to catch a glimpse of the groom too, thoroughly hoping he hadn’t done a runner!

“Holy. Fucking. _Christ!_ ” John’s pretty jaw dropped open, feet stalling and hackles raised.

“I don’t think you should scream that here, Nigel,” Nick chuckled, motioning to the bewildered Italian onlookers, then brushing John’s shoulder. “There’s far too much lint on this suit, what did I tell you about using the roll— holy shit. _Christ_ —”

“—Almighty!” Butting in, John did the Hail Mary cross with a snicker.

There they both stood, gaping at the incredible sight. The Capo di Monte cathedral standing proud before them, shimmering, with a striking set of regalia about it. John was floored, it truly was the most stunning cathedral he had ever seen. _Not too shabby, Froggie!_ Not that he had seen so many before visiting Italy and Germany though, finding his feet again, he couldn’t help but gawk as he and Nick traversed the final steps.

John didn’t say it, though catching sight of an incredibly handsome best man really helped to set the scene alight.


	4. So Come Up And See Me

The ceremony was something in and of itself. Very intimate, with a striking backdrop. John was sure to get a crick in his neck, he couldn’t help but keep throwing his head back hoping to catch sight, memorise and further analyse the endless ancient oil paintings on the ceilings; the endless golden pillars and candles that screamed the muted decadence around him.

John had almost swallowed his chewing gum as Giovanna glided down the aisle. Her _Emmanuel_ dress, who had custom made Lady Diana Spencer’s iconic number a few years back, was truly a sight to behold. _Fit for royalty, indeed._ Her ivory gown was full of ruffles, puffy sleeves and details that gave her look a fairytale like quality. Though if John was truly being honest with himself, hands and head somewhat bowed to mask the embarrassment: his widened chocolate browns were much better focused on _another_ striking figure, who had already made his way down that royal aisle.

_C’mon. Come up and see me!_

Throughout the ceremony, John’s gaze kept fleeting to Simon, trying to gauge every reaction the nuptials drew out of him. Simon was smiling broadly, in a look John registered as sheer amazement, the whole time: beady blues fixed onto Roger and Giovanna as they grew closer to delivering their wedding vows.

_Make me smile, Charlie!_

Then, John’s throat was in his chest, came the rings. He giggled to himself, as Simon sidled up on Roger’s side to present the ring box, he shed a tear as his drummer said “I do.”

Both Duran’s were beaming up there, before Simon moved to the side to allow the new Mr & Mrs Taylor – _god, not another one!_ \- their full share of the limelight. Roger kissed his blushing bride and the small crowd clapped and cheered, John himself letting out a wolf whistle. That earned him a heavy glance from Nick at his left and a widened ‘what the fuck, baby?!’ from Simon upfront.

_Whoops._

John just shrugged, with a wink.

_Force of habit._

In jubilation, petals and rice were thrown as the couple exited the cathedral and moseyed on down the steps. With the other guests, John was ordered to stand and pose on the top tier behind them. He almost missed Simon sidling up on his side, the sudden heat at John’s back told him who was there.

That didn’t mean he turned though, he wanted to enjoy having that secret hand in his a moment longer. He sighed happily, shutting his eyes.

“Guess who?” The laugh was breathy, heart stopping.

“Ummm… Andy? You came all this way?” John jibed back.

“No, you idiot Taylor, _me_.”

“Charlie? What, no way?!” He mocked, before having the best man ripped from his sights.

John watched, a little miffed that he had to share Simon with Roger today, as the bride and groom posed for more individual photos; then with the groomsmen and bridesmaids. John anxiously awaited his turn, heated gaze on Simon’s lean silhouette the whole time.

His heart was in his throat (he had accidentally swallowed his chewing gum whole when Simon had started massaging his palm a few minutes ago; trying desperately not to choke and ruin the moment) and waited patiently for when it was the band’s turn to pose.

Congratulating Roger, hoping that he wouldn’t tear up and be called a wimp by his wife – _holy shit, his wife_ – the four of them got into position and smiled – _holy shit, Roger has his Mrs Froggie Barnacle!_ \- beautifully. Nick and John still wanted Roger to have his spotlight, something the drummer never craved and using his Taylor Telepathy, Roger picked up on his vibe by remaining front and centre. For once, John’s heart skipped a beat over the thought, Roger was more than happy to be the one the camera’s wanted. It was a welcome change, for John, that was for sure.

He also refrained from asking Giovanna, how it felt to finally officially be Mrs _Two Hands._

_Four? Four hands for his?!_

Roger didn’t let Giovanna go at all, John noted with a small and totally not at all jealous grin, not from the cathedral all the way to the marina where their hired yacht was anxiously awaiting to get the _real_ celebrations started.

_Or is it still two? Gio’s hands for his..._


	5. Now The Figureheads Have Fell

The hoard of slightly sweaty guests trudged through the town with the coast in their sights. John and Nick were all over each other, it seemed, as it was clear in the bassist’s mind that soon he would have to give Nick up for the remaining celebrations to his fiancé Julie Anne.

He supposed it didn’t bug him, though John figured it was something he had to get used too.

It had been odd at first with Tracey, though it was clear from the get go since they first cleaned the dance floor together back in Paris: Andy and Tracey were a match made in heaven. And again with Giovanna. From their baby days back at the _Rum Runner,_ the humble cloakroom girl had made a lasting impression on his shy drummer. Another match made in heaven, both sets of Taylors were.

“Erm, John?”

However John wasn’t sure, assuming it wasn’t really his business (and that Nick would crush him for even suggesting it), there was just something lurking in his subconscious about the soon to be Mrs Rhodes… _Bates?_ Something had been nagging at John this whole time, from the night before Andy’s wedding when Nick and Julie Anne has first laid eyes on each other straight through the frantic proposal and wedding planning.

“John?”

  
_Master Bates is in it for the dosh!_

It was sure to be a raving pink disaster of a day at The Savoy. He couldn’t wait to get completely sloshed, drown his sorrows over losing his best friend, and flirt the night away with Simon.

  
_It’s a fuck tonne of dosh though, can’t deny._

“John? For the love of—”

John put on a brave face, more than convinced the couple wouldn’t last. Maybe it was a Taylor thing, till death do you part.

_A Taylor thing?_ _Hang on._

It dawned on him, mind fleeting back to his little melt down back in his hotel suite earlier that morning, he was the only Taylor left. The only _single_ one… well, at least the only Taylor free from any real commitment at the hands of the Lord, what have you.

“Nigel?”

He was panicky over it, (almost) three Duran’s were off the market. Their appeal was headed straight down the tubes, as far as John was concerned he was convinced he couldn’t let that happen to all five of them.

He owed it to the fans, he supposed.

“This is _Planet Earth_ , Nigel,” the sharp slap to his arm finally bought him out of his daze.

“Bop-bop _what?!_ ”

“Bop-bop yourself,” Nick’s brows furrowed, “you’ve been staring out to space for nearly ten minutes. Nigel, what’s wrong?”

John dismissed him with a wave, shoving on his _Raybans_ with his free hand.

“Bollocks, something has been bugging you for a while now. What is it?”

“Oh it’s, you know Nicky, uh… nothin’.”

There was a sudden holler, a unified gasp at what lay before them.

“Is that?” John motioned, squinting behind his shades.

“Holy fuck.” Came Nick’s anything but gracious reply.  
  


They were face to face with a gorgeous yacht, glistening stark white underneath the shimmering sun. She was warm, friendly, bobbing softly atop of the water. Beckoning then over, radiating intrigue (which probably also meant the whiff of booze) and stability.

_Unless you are Nick Rhodes._

Nick gulped audibly beside him, John couldn’t help but cackle.

“Am I going to have to get you good an’ drunk, before _Rio_ part deux, _Master_ Bates?”

“Shove off,” John whined at the playful shove to his side, illustrating Nick’s point. “And yes.”

Pivoting around, taking the keyboardist’s soft palm in his own: “A beeline for the champagne it is then, y’know there best be strawberries.” John winked.

“And then we’re talking, I want to know what’s on your mind Nigel.”

With a huff, unconvinced the marathon his mind was running was worth grinding to a halt. “‘Kay.”

Then they parted ways, somewhat. The satellite dish on Mrs Friedman’s head totally blocked John’s line of sight as the _other_ Mrs Friedman, Nicholas, greeted her with a stomach churning kiss.

“Gross.” He murmured, fumbling about his pockets for Simon’s Walkman that he stole this morning: for precisely when John would be abandoned and left to his own devices.

Inwardly debating whether it was culturally insensitive to blast (in his ears, he didn’t care who else heard him) Frankie’s _Relax_ \- _notoriously banned by the BBC, it’s surely got to hit number one any time now_ \- in a damn holy city. He had to voice his frustrations somehow and unfortunately there was no bass or crack in sight.

_Or drummer, come to think of it._

Bobbing away, sniggering as he got some strange looks whilst being an antisocial bitch, John began to slip from the main crowd.  
  


_Has the wedding car even arrived yet?_

“Bow wow wow… ah, when ya wanna come! Come, _ohhh!”_ He sounded out, shameless. “Woo!”

Only now had he caught sight of Simon again. His grin began to falter, jacking up the volume louder, as he noted Simon opening the car door.

“Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah, _fuck_.”

John smirked upon seeing that little beckoning motion, then the bow Simon gave as the bride gracefully exited.

_I’m comin, hey hey hey hey-yah!_

Then the sneaky grin and slap of ass Simon threw the groom’s way.

“Sod.” He sniggered, Roger just had to grin and bare it.

_Semen._

He couldn’t help but feel a hint of jealousy though, slipping even further away from the already slightly rowdy hoard of roadies.

_Seaman, get it? I feel it…_

It was time to set sail, the yacht was more than eager to whisk them away for a memorable night of love on the water. Another round of confetti: John kept his distance this time; letting the main bridal party have their spotlight. He was watching with a undeniable strange _bitterness_ as Roger and Giovanna were first to step onboard with Simon, then Nick hand in hand with Julie Anne.

That also didn’t stop him boarding the ship with Billy Idol’s _White Wedding_ – _much more tasteful in lieu of today’s events_ – blasting.

  
***  
  


“You did it Froggie, I’m so _proud_ of you,” John whispered into Roger’s ear, now posing on the yacht.

A full, face splitting smile coated the groom’s handsome face. John’s heart felt warm, eliciting a small batch of laughter from Roger.

“Thanks Johnny. So you _didn’t_ fall asleep during the ceremony, huh?”

Sniggering, John let out a triumphant “nope!”

He couldn’t wait any longer. John reeled his Froggie in tight, refraining from painting his delectable satin grey suit with his own tears of happiness and pride.

Pulling away, John caught that glimpse in his drummer’s eye. The glimpse that told him so much... there really was a light shining down on Roger today, a spotlight that no man could take away from him. John wouldn’t dare to step into his flame. He let it burn brighter and brighter.

“All the best, I love you so much Rog.” A tender hand on the drummer’s shoulder clutched him a little tighter. 

There, on the yacht, they stood: Nick with his camera beside Simon. Simon with a hand on Giovanna’s back. Roger with a tender arm around his bride and a sassy hand on his hip. Then John, at Roger’s side, who had only now just realised, aimlessly staring at the silver wrapped so effortlessly around Roger’s finger, realised he had to let another Duran _go_.

_Do you, Nigel John Taylor, take the… uh, the…_

They posed once, twice, three shots in quick succession. Out of the corner of his eye and because both Roger and Giovanna were much shorter than him, John had a near unobstructed view of his boyfriend; also gleaming in his own best man spotlight.

_Fuck off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy would be anniversary to Roger and Gio! This was thirty six years ago now, the fuck.


	6. I’m Lost And I’m Found

The night rolled on and the party was in full swing. The guest list had rolled out another fifty odd guests, courtesy of the Taylor boys themselves as a gift to Roger and Giovanna.

“Scent and a sound, I’m lost and I’m—”

“— _Nigel!_ ”

“I’m suddenly fuckin’ _found_.” He spat, more into his drink than at a mildly buzzed keyboardist.

John himself was mildly buzzed on the odd pint and would probably be walking into walls very soon.

If the yacht had any walls. Thankfully, it had rails.

Unlike the previous night, he had decided not to latch himself onto Simon and make do with some of the other Duran hangers on from their days on the road from the _Sing Blue Silver_ tour. And Nick, who too was somewhat wasted on champagne. Though the man could consume copious amounts and somehow register the fact that he was indeed still in the room.

“You were going to talk to me.”

They were both swaying.

“I was?”

Nick shrugged. “What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t really think it though.

“All you assholes leaving me.”

Silence.

“… Enough talkin’, Bates?”

Why not be blunt?

Heavily lined gaze falling into his champagne flute, “yeah.”

A fake smile, “I’m gonna get hammered.”

Feeling a little hot under the collar, not too convinced he was ready to give and or get a lecture on wanting and not wanting a marriage right this moment: John slipped away, bar in his sights.

Instead of letting anything slip, he partied with Nick as far away from the makeshift dance floor as the keyboardist could get. At least until his fiancé was a little too pissed to be sharing him. With a snort, John let Julie Anne claim her bride – _her darling Nicholas_ \- and sneak off to somewhere more secluded for some drunken fun.

_Fuck him._

John vowed that he wouldn’t mosey off to do the same; though it was hard. Heat and all. There were far too many drunken friends getting handsy, getting whiney about not being touched.

_No, stop it John!_

He slid away from the bar in favour of the dinner table and a breather.

Though turns out, sending a cheeky grin Roger’s way after he noticed, he was sat right next to Simon anyways. John wanted their placards framed, the fancy script deserved to be preserved on his dressing table. So, when it came to eat, John found it very hard to not hold Simon’s hand under the table. Or brush anything else upon it.  
  


“Where’d Mrs Friedman go?” Simon sniggered, downing a shot.

“Wherever the _other_ Mrs Friedman demanded to be… taken.” John blurted, cackling through his words.

Nick still didn’t know about the couple’s little ‘pet’ name for him.

“And you _didn’t_ follow?” Now grabbing his complimentary prosecco glass, Simon bought it to his lips.

Chuckling, cutting himself off with a burp, “nahhhh. Why, would ya wanna be there _with_ me? Watchin’?”

John wasn’t wasted enough to miss the sneaky glint in Simon’s eye.

“You would! You dirty fuck.” John sniggered, running his fingertips up Simon’s jacketed arm.

“Watch it, Johnny.”

The tone was deep, dark and full of authority. John pulled back with a yelp. Instead, he focused his attention to the plates as dinner was served.

The food was magnificent. They had everything from oysters, to ravioli, to beef. John was a little all over the place by now, having downed the prosecco for the toast, emotions beginning to pour out of him.

“Can’t believe _another_ one’s all married off, why do we even bother?!” John chuckled, not quite sure whether he really meant it.

And to pour out of Simon.

“God, can you even imagine who’s gonna be next? Luv, I know I can’t— Simon?”

_Wait, where had Simon gone?_

“Simon?!”

_How long have I been out?_

“Well thanks a lot for leavin’ me, Charlie!” He blurted, gesturing to anyone who would listen. He also earned a strange glance from a couple of Roger’s cousins.

***  
  


“John, sweetie, are you alright?”

At some point he had fallen back into his seat and began playing with his used cutlery instead.

“Huh, oh, oh yeah. I’m fine, thanks for asking _Jean_.” He smiled a full beaming smile, though he was shitting himself a little. “You’re looking lovely, as always.”

“Thank you, John.”

He hadn’t meant to cause such a racket that Roger’s mother had to intervene. If there was indeed anything to actually intervene.

Already running low on the small talk (and craving another tipple) John upped and simply asked: “you haven’t seen, you know, _Simon_ , ‘ave you?”

“No dear I ‘avent.” Her Brummie drawl filled his ears, he wished it could steady him.

“Okay, thanks anyway Mum—” his eyes widened comically, the drink was getting to him. “Oh uh, y’know I didn’t… didn’t mean too, uh, sorry Jean I… Christ.”

With a small laugh, “it’s okay John. I know you’re missin’ her.”

“More than you would believe. Damn _heats_ gettin’ me wanting me Mummy,” he sniggered, blushing bright.

“Ah, right,” they both could sense the awkward turn, “maybe Simon could help to comfort you…”

“Yeah uh, if he did that, we’ll be makin’ babies on deck. Be thankful Rog’s a Beta.”

“He can _control_ ‘imself, yeah.” The rise of her blonde brows told John to shut up. Though he was sure, squinting, that a small and sly smile was cocking up on her bottom lip. Much like how Roger would, when their percussion section was really hitting it off for a new track. “John, I’d appreciate it if you’d save that for _after_ my son’s reception,” she trailed off, with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” with a sigh, “don’t think I’m gettin’ any anyways… Simon’s just,” he paused, wondering why he was beginning to confide in Roger’s mother. “I don’t know, not himself today.”

“How so?”

_Would someone please explain?_

“He’s been so cold? I don’t know. I think it’s all the weddin’ crap,” John’s gaze widened comically as he bought his palms up in surrender, “n-not that Rog gettin’ married is a bad thing y’know and uh… shit, Gio’s a very wonderful lady and…” John trailed off, shaking the fringe from his eyes.

Cackling, Jean clasped her hand in his.

“I uh… I don’t know how to explain, sorry.”

_The reason for my baby’s strange behaviour._

Jean nodded, a dashing smile sweeping her face. “I understand. Perhaps he’s overwhelmed, it’s a lot to get used too.”

John considered, blinking slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That, that actually makes sense… plus with this bollocks year we’ve had on the road. _Arena_ and all.”

“You’re all exhausted.”

“Rog’s wedding came as the break, thank fuck.”

“You all could use a proper break. Maybe that’s what Simon needs: a thorough break from touring.” Jean reassured him, though John could see that the smile no longer reached her eyes. “Go find him, John, talk it out. Whatever it is. Or maybe Nick?”

“He’s probably off shaggin’ Jules, ma’am,” they both laughed merrily at that.

“Thank you for _that_ imagery, dear.” Jean’s laughter continued to flow, John found himself enrapt in the small trance. Then, with a change of heart, “but seriously John, find Simon. Tell him what’s on your mind.”

“I uh, he’s just been so _off_ with me. I dunno why!” John tossed his arms up, in distress. “And I…” rotten heats “‘aven’t really been feeling myself much either lately. Somethin’s gotta change but I, I don’t know what.” He added, gaze dropping back to his lap.

“Would talking to Roger help you?” She asked, honest.

Shaking his head, John vowed not to bother Roger with any of his shit today. That included his Simon shit.

“Okay then, John, talk to Simon. Just _try_. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not, sweetie. Take it from me, you don’t wanna be runnin’ from the man you love. He needs you as much as you need him.”

_Now that’s what you call good advice._

Blushing lightly, he loved when she gave him a little pet name – softening John out, John put on a brave face.

_Don’t run._

Instead, John steered the conversation to much easier territory: complimenting Jean’s lovely frock and light makeup. The bassist wasn’t sure what his drummer would do, should he come undone all over said drummer’s mother: liquor loose mouth or not. Steve would surely have him by the balls.

Instead, he told her how happy he was for Roger: how overjoyed he was that everything so far had ran smoothly.

_Confront him._

He very nearly confided in her about his _own_ little outbursts and flaky behaviour over this wedding malarkey. Then his better judgement somehow settled in, knowing it was a matter the mother of the groom did not need to hear.

_Just try._

Perhaps it was a matter for the other Jean Taylor; the mother of the never-would be groom.

_Or chicken out, way to go Taylor._


	7. So Call It What You Want To Call It

John had no clue how much time had passed, still tasting the icing from the wedding cake on his tongue. Simon hadn’t returned to his seat for desert; John had nearly given up on attempting to find and ambush him with his lips. He was pretty horny, he blamed the raging hormones, though was convinced that he was horny for Simon. Talking to him, simply horny for his voice.

By now John was swaying about merrily, being blinded by camera after camera as the yacht continued to bob about… whatever waters they were above now. He didn’t know.

Catching the arm off, uh, some blur, “any of ya blokes seen Simon about?”

There was a collective shake of head. John frowned.

Stumbling back towards the bar, his bleary gaze didn’t detect any signs of his front man anywhere. John checked the bathrooms, the bride and groom’s extra table, then out to the deck he sauntered; having long discarded his blazer and turning back up his black sleeves.

Outside, the world ground to a halt. It was a dream, almost, doused in golden fairy lights that painted the deck in a warm buttery glow. There were small circular tables, a few chairs and plenty of discarded bottles: John had to watch where he stepped.

He fumbled about in his trouser pockets, bringing a cigarette up to his lips. Inhaling sharply, John groaned at the sensation of the nicotine as it shot through his veins to warm his icy core. He watched as the trails of smoke whisked their way around him, framing his face, the small bead of light illuminating his otherwise heavily shadowy figure.

John stumbled to the edge, holding on tight. There was still no sight of Simon though John caught a chill, something riding on the breeze as it ran through his hair. Simon couldn’t be too far.

At that point he chuckled, the whole yacht seeming to suddenly wake back up and cheer, the familiar pulsing bass notes of _Girls On Film_ were pulsing through him. Of course, he laughed, someone had to play them sometime! He was surprised really, a good four hours into the whole shebang and no _Duran Duran_ had poured through the ship’s speakers.

_Thankfully no Spandau bullshit either…_

**_Take one last glimpse into the night,_ **

“John?”

**_I’m touching close, I’m holding bright. Holding tight._ **

“Johnny?”

**_Shadows in a whisper, I’m coming closer._ **

****

“Simon!” His whole face life up, promptly flinging the blazing cigarette overboard. “Where ya been?!”

John didn’t care who was watching, he hurled his drunken self into those precious arms.

**_Take me higher till I’m,_ **

He planted his liquor loose lips right on Simon’s, in a sloppy, somewhat concealed movie star moment. The whole deck came alive again, they were framed beautifully by the fireflies and illuminated by the stars. Time seemed to stop, if only for a moment. For them, for the fragile love they held for each other.

**_Shooting a star._ **

John almost jumped him too, sending them both dangling over the bars. Steadying himself, flailing all over his front man, John couldn’t help but feel naughty at having smooched the crap out of Simon for the whole world to see. He really got a thrill out of the taboo of it all, knowing that the press weren’t their problem tonight. They very easily could go further, tongues inching to explore their alcohol flush skin and sweaty chests on show to exploit.

_No, stop it. Not today. You promised him._

Heavy head swirling, John helped to pry Simon from him. Though John was likely far drunker, he really was a lightweight, they were both somehow conscious enough to know not to push any more boundaries. That kiss, that was their fill for the night.

“Are you feeling okay? How’s the,” John’s heavily lidded gaze just about followed Simon’s finger, “cravings?”

“Cravings…”

_The usual, Charlie: hormones, mood swings, horniness, sweating, bloating and all round horniness_.

“I’m keepin’ it in my pants.” John shrugged. “Promised Rog.”

_Damn cluster of spots on my chin have been making me more self conscious._

“You,” there was a cackle, “ _promised_ Rog?”

_So have you, after leaving me._

John nodded, arms crossing his chest. “And I promised Jean… after I, y’know, hit on her and called her me Mum.”

“ _Mum?!_ ”

John flushed violently, blood rushing all through his system as Simon laughed that wonderfully wasted laugh.

“Yeah, I miss my Mummy, ya arse.”

Still cackling, “I know you do, Johnny.”

Blushing, or was it the alcohol, Simon’s shy tone caught his attention. “I think I…” he pointed back in direction of inside, wherever that was.

Nodding, “y-yeah okay Simon… let’s _do_ that.”

Beginning to retreat, John felt a sudden loneliness bought simply by seeing the back of his front man. Without thinking, without needing to think, John shot an arm forward to tug at Simon’s crisp white sleeve.

“Luv, wait!”

Simon span about, blinking rapidly. Searching for John’s silhouette, he figured, creeping into the dark.

“I wann- wanna ask you somethin’. Let’s go uh,” John pivoted, praying the other end of the deck was clear save for the two of them. “That way.”

Thankfully, Simon didn’t need much persuading.

“You’re not _high_ again, are you baby?” It came out gruff, muffled into John’s shoulder.

“No.”

Together they bumbled along, slumping over each other, helping each other stay on their feet. John groaned happily at their closeness, knowing this would have to suffice for tonight.

_Could always fuck in the ocean,_ he supposed. It wouldn’t be the first time for either of them.

“Simon I,” John blinked drunkenly, bringing Simon in closer by latching an arm around his back. “I gotta, you know, uh.”

“Throw up? Aim over the side.”

“No!” He laughed a drunken laugh. “Not yet, anyways.”

“Then, what is it?”

Together they both slumped down so their backs were pressed against the sides of the yacht, the coolness of the metal bars helping to chill John’s boiling skin.

“About this mornin’ I…”

Inches apart, hands braced at their sides, John’s heavy gaze fell to their fingertips. Ever so close. Not close enough.

“Charlie I, I wanna apolo-polo—apolog _ise_. For you know.”

Simon shook his mullet from his face. “For what?”

John grimaced. He wasn’t too sure.

“I dunno. Gettin’ all pushy with you this morning? You must’ve been… been…”

“Irritated? Annoyed? Nervous?”

“That one,” John pointed out, bopping Simon’s nose in the process. “Yeah. But why? You never, baby, _never_ get nervous now. Why with me?”

John’s voice ground to a halt. He was ever so close to Simon, he could study him. Could visualise each and every pore, any cuts, any other imprints to his lover’s skin. John couldn’t miss the tears that began to form in those widened misty blue eyes, John felt his own creep upon him.

“Why?” He repeated, voice a mere frightened whisper.

Simon groaned, flinging his hands up to cross them around his chest. John sniffed at that, their finger tips had been so close to touching and Simon had set that barrier again. With a grimace, John figured he ought to do the same. He let his fingers rest in his lap, awkwardly, as Simon found his voice.

“I guess I, Johnny, was so on edge ‘cuz I… it’s a _wedding_.”

John’s gaze dropped to his hands, he began to pick out what lay under his nails.

“A wedding and I,” Simon paused, John didn’t dare to look his way, “I guess I… I want that. _Happily ever after_ and all.”

There was a shaky breath from John’s right, he knew Simon couldn’t hold back his rain much longer.

“And it’s not just Rog it’s, _fuck_ ,” John was sure that growl meant Simon was wiping at his eyes, “it’s Nick too. The baby of the group and I.. god sake. Shouldn’t it be me? It _should_ be me.”

John was taken aback, he couldn’t lie.

“Twenty six and… fucksake John, what have I got? Andy married at twenty-one!”

John gulped down the bulging lump in his throat.

“And Ands with the baby… soon Rog and Gio’ll be havin’ babies too and Nick,” Simon cut himself off with a bark of laughter. “Nick’ll n- _never_ change his kid’s nappy, _ever_.”

John couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I can’t shake it from my mind, John.”

At that moment, the air thick between them, the cold really began to settle in.

“I know we’ve talked ‘bout it loads John and I know you aren’t gonna change, ahem, change your… _mind_.” John chose that moment to turn, throwing caution into Simon’s wind; to see his face. “You don’t want any of that. I don’t know how I, _why_ I, still stay with you?”

Only now could he begin to register how downtrodden and defeated his front man was.

“I want, fuckin’ hell I want that. All of it. You know I want to be a dad, you know I wanna married— _marriage_. But you Johnny,” there was an excruciating pause. Simon chose not to say anymore.

Or maybe he did and John gave up on listening.  
  


Alcohol or no, Simon couldn’t hold back his rain. John held on to the vulnerable sounds of sobs, sniffles and choked off cries. He was gnawing into his bottom lip too, knowing where this conversation was headed.

After a painfully deadly silence, John was thrown for a loop, Simon coughed up: “I don’t know anymore Johnny… why, why _we_ …”

John was gnawing into his bottom lip to keep himself from screaming back.

“This isn’t _fun_ any more. I don’t wanna, John look at me—”

Simon broke off with a croak, John’s gaze shot across to him. Watery eyes ready to burst the dam, to wash away the last of the powder coating John’s flushed face.

“— I’m done with, w-with—” John gulped audibly, ever so close to lashing out now, “messin’ around. I know what I want and you, baby, do- _don’t_ want that. And I… John, I can’t… I won’t…”

“You wanna, you know,” John chose his words carefully, stalling. “M..marry _me?_ ”

There was a shaky exhale, “I do—did- _didn’t_ say that.”

“Oh, okay.” John muttered, desperate to form a more articulate phrase to voice what he couldn’t bring himself to say. Or do. “You want… babies?”

At that, John almost threw up, Simon’s gaze was so wide, eyes bloodshot and raw from his tears that John only now began to realise how serious Simon was being. Drunk or not, he had let his guard down in a way John had never known him too.

Drunk or not, John was beginning to understand. It’s the beginning of the end.

“I do John, you know that. You’ve,” another shaky voice crack, John shivered, “you’ve _always_ known that.”

Without another word, though it took a couple tries, Simon shakily arose to his feet.

“I’ve gotta get some,” Simon gestured wildly around him.

“Air? We’re outside, luv.”

Simon dismissed him with a deft wave of hand. He swayed slightly, though John’s vision wouldn’t give him any mercy as the images were further distorted. John could’ve sworn, his lover— no, _friend,_ shot him a single heavy glance. Whatever it was, stunned the bassist to the core as it bored through him.

“I love you.” He muttered, stifling a cry in his sleeve.

Still a rumpled heap discarded at the back of the boat, skin now damp with the ocean breeze as it swayed him, John collapsed onto one side. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to follow.

That was the last he saw of Simon that night. Of any Duran, in fact, though he didn’t expect Roger to come looking for him. Not seeing Nick again hurt. If Andy was there, John sniffled at the thought, Andy wouldn’t leave him this way. He needed Andy, it seemed, he couldn’t bear to bring Roger down to deal with his shit today.

Now all he could do was waste the remaining measly hours at sea, without his man by his side, tossing up over the side in fear that when John returned back to their hotel room: it would be free save for his aching soul.


	8. In The Darkest Place You Can Find

John had little to no clue how he had gotten back to the hotel. He had lost his blazer somewhere, it was likely on its way around the Italian coast along with the bride and groom who’s honeymoon started pretty much from as soon as they had stepped aboard.

He thought, piecing it together amongst a hoard of wasted roadies, that they must’ve docked and walked. Or slumped. All that he could remember was that they hadn’t had any fancy vehicles the trip back, so surely the whole squad were rudely awakening street after street as they battled their way through downtown Naples.

If there was even such a thing as ‘downtown Naples’ – John had no idea.

What he did know was that he had misplaced his room key and wallet; having left them in the blazer that was probably en route to Sardinia by now.

So, he was face to face with the hotel door, hand trembling as he fought with himself over knocking. He hadn’t seen Simon since the little incident over on the yacht and knew full well that his front man hadn’t returned with the group of stragglers like himself. Come to think of it, John hadn’t caught sight of Nick again either. _The bastard was probably getting laid somewhere, somewhere dirty_ – John thought to himself, with a cock-sure grin.

_Way to go big brother!_

So, returning to his present situation. He had no cash on hand to get himself another room and he was pretty much clueless as to who else from the wedding party was where. What he did know was that Duran and only Duran were staying at this ritzy joint; the others a couple miles over towards the shore.

_Fuck_. He had to knock.

He slammed the knocker once, twice, calling to whoever was inside. John felt the bile rising in this throat as he kicked the door and the light gushed out from underneath it. John didn’t know what he would do if Simon had a woman in there, or another man, he couldn’t rent himself a room for the night well after 3AM.

Knocking a final time, the door swung open and he crashed through it; tumbling to his knees. Flicking his head up, tongue darting out, he was met with miles and miles of deliciously tan skin; sparkling when backlit by the yellow butter glow of the candlelight.

Shakily, John rose to standing, latching onto the wall. He greeted Simon with a nod, slinking his way past with collapsing onto the mattress in mind.

John did just that. Head pounding, too clouded and swirly to undress or anything of the sort.

Face planting his silken sheets, he gripped them tight and fought to keep conscious; hearing a slight tut from behind him. Craning his neck, he noticed that the door had shut and been locked but Simon wasn’t turning out any lights.

His high was beginning to wear off, being replaced with a much newer electrical impulse that shot its way though every vein and artery. He could’ve sworn his body was alight with the sparks, losing sight of where those hands were going. Only the whisper of removed clothing, the last of the fabric fluttering to the floor, told John that there he lay: taking up their kingsize, in a pair of white briefs only.

  
“Thank you,” he breathed.

He shivered bodily, shuffling onto one side. He couldn’t quite beckon the other body down to blanket him, to _comfort_ him as he fell into a deep; drunken slumber. Though he could at least make room, shuddering as the body fell into step beside him.

The candles were put out, now only the small lamp beside John’s head basked the bed in the mellow glow. The light flickered, John was on his side. The light flickered, John’s head was resting on his chest. The light ceased, John had a trembling finger running down miles of smooth chest, before settling right on his heart. The thud was comforting, helping to stabilise his own out of sorts pulse.

The sheets were pulled up and up John went, lips trailing over damp skin with feathery kisses. He didn’t know where he was headed; he didn’t need too, his body would map out the route and find it’s own way. His destination parted beautifully, without a second thought, their want was no longer so unknown.

Their lips voiced the apology, swallowed by the lone press of John’s tongue. He asked for entrance and trembled as he was granted it, swirling around in another liquor stained mouth. John could taste the enhancement, their liquid courage was beginning to fade away and leave them with their own courage. An aching want, though he still didn’t know whether his desire warranted anything further. Whether what he remembered of their night meant they could end on such a high.

He was hurting, they both were. Whether their lips danced in each other’s hold or not, whether they each could even begin to piece together their conversation, John wasn’t sure this was the way to go.

Pulling away, he lay his head back atop of that strong chest. Fiddling with the familiar chain, the infamous tiger for his _Tigger_ , he began clutching tight to the charm.

“I’m sorry Johnny,” John almost missed him, his voice was so vulnerable and full of remorse. The tone was unheard of, almost. “I’m sorry for what I said.”  
  


Sobering up much faster than he thought he could, he threw his head back and shuffled to his side. He couldn’t see him, only the faint shadows glided about that handsome face. He sent a hand out, shaking, in search of Simon. Anything, everything. Instead, he latched back onto his gleaming golden chain; reeling his front man in closer.

“You didn’t, you know,” he stalled, grasping the tiger charm in his sweaty palm, “didn’t do anythin’… _wrong_. I’m sorry I, Charlie,” he knew those widened baby blues were raw, fixing themselves onto his own blurry silhouette, “I’m sorry I can’t uh, give you whatcha want.”

_But you can._

“Can we talk in the mornin’, or,” John broke off, thinking, “just enjoy our holiday?” Adding desperately: “I wanna spend it with you in my arms, only a couple more days before all the band crap’s gonna start. _Please_ Simon.”

_You know you can._

“Please Simon, I can’t take it. Just another day with you, in paradise, is all I want.”

There was a shaky breath, John held onto the chain for dear life. “Okay, John. We’ll talk when we get back home.”

  
_Home._ To his lonesome Knightsbridge palace, without Simon.

“You want,” he paused, nuzzling Simon’s neck, attempting to stall for time and to choose his words carefully, “your Omega to… you know?”

_It’ll change your life forever._

He felt Simon tense beneath him, John wondered if he’d gone too far.

_Your body will never be the same again._

“I can Charlie, you know I can. Just not right now. In a couple, erm, _few_ months maybe I… we could… you know.” _Try_. Rambling, John had no idea where he was headed.

_You can kiss your career goodbye._

There was no answer, in terms of talking.

_You’ll have Simon forever, though, right?_

“Andy’s about to do it. Who says we can’t?” John was thoroughly losing his mind.

_Wouldn’t it be worth it?_

“Don’t think. Just do.” Was the last thing John could remember saying, for every other sound was being swallowed by an ever more eager growing tongue, answered in kind by ever more eager growing fingertips.

John had no idea how fast he was falling, how fast he had fallen. All that he knew was as he was being blanketed by Simon’s strong, muscular figure, basking in the darkness, that Simon was his ray of light. His conductor, ready to orchestrate their melody for tonight.

_You know life is cruel._

“What do you want, John?”

_Life is never kind._

Moaning softly, he couldn’t deny that sudden urge although John was sure that what they were doing was wrong.

“ _You_.” He trembled.

“Take care of me tonight, please. Just _hold_ me.” He warned, wanting nothing more.

_What a way to say goodbye._

_***_  
  


The following morning consisted of the two men fighting vile hangovers, neither leaving the bed. Though John was dressed only in his briefs, they kept to opposite sides of the bed, barely touching. Only talking should the other want to check out the room service menu.


	9. Waiting For The Sound Of Thunder

_Thursday August 1, 1984_

Landing back at Heathrow saw John, Simon and Nick part ways. Nick was back off to Moseley, with final wedding plans in store. Simon was headed off back to Pinner, for another precious week of relaxation before the _Arena_ shit was set to hit the fan.

This left John with the dilemma: should he stay in London, whilst the endless children kicked and screamed outside, scratching his car, belting out _Save A Prayer_ at all times of the day or head back to Brum? Either way he wasn’t sure he could escape the paparazzi. He would be holding himself away in his Knightsbridge tower like Rapunzel; wanting to let down his ever growing shaggy mullet and await his Prince Charming to sweep him off of his feet. To save him.

_Or was that Cinderella?_

He could head back to Birmingham. It had been a while since the so-called _Prince Of Hollywood_ had shown his face around the Bullring, Rotunda, Kings Norton Green or The Maypole…

Shaking his head, John watched as the final bags were offloaded from their private jet as a tear brimmed in his eye. Back to London, lonely in his nightmare, it was.

“How does the _Queen_ song go?” He asked no-one in particular, as their new hit _Radio Gaga_ played through his car radio. “‘M naked and I’m far from home? Save Me, _Save_ Me.”

***  
  


The crucial week of supposed freedom passed in a haze of tom-foolery. John was stoned for the majority of it: numbing his pain in the only way he knew how, a few too many discarded condoms to count in his bin.

He had refrained from playing any of their new material, the live shows recorded earlier in the year at the Toronto gigs. To him, playing the tape would only amplify Simon’s voice – as stupidly obvious as it sounded. More often than not his bass was the one instrument that could never be heard. Though John knew, swigging from the half empty _Stolichnaya_ bottle, that the only component he wanted to be dulled by was Simon. His heavenly voice. The vulnerable cracks and hitches.

Shaking his head, downing what was left of the cruel liquor, John tossed the bottle to his side and headed for bed. Solemn, alone again.

He’d be lying if the thought hadn’t nagged at his mind. A family, a baby, perhaps that was really the only way he could make them both happy. A _future_. Somebody to come home too after months on the road, after months of gruelling separation.

He knew he was wasted. He knew that his thoughts were getting the better of him. John may not always be the _flaky bandit_ in the eyes of the full band, though he was sure to go back on his word someday. Should he promise Simon just that: a baby.

_Why not try, just once?_

John stripped off, skin alight with sweat. Slumping onto the bed, tossing the already unmade sheets off the edge of the mattress; he really wished he had company tonight. Hired, stoned, drunk or otherwise. _Hired?_ he scoffed, wondering why he wasn’t piss drunk out on the town with a random lad hanging off of his arm as he fumbled with the hotel room keys.

_Leave it up to the Gods?_

He just needed to shake himself free of the shackles bought about him by his guilt. He knows that he can give Simon what he wants, his body will allow it. It’s a question of whether John’s mind will.

_Wait. That’s really a dumb thing to say._

Turning to his side, his hand lurched forward to grasp the lamp. He hovered momentarily, eyes falling to the picture frame laying lifeless on his bedside table. It was a shot of the two of them, Simon’s gaze veering off to the left and John having practically fallen into him. John’s tongue was hanging out and his bass was dropping from his grip: together they had made major fools of each other on the poorly lit stage.

_You can’t just try._

With a huff, then a small smile, John fingered the silver frame. Lolling back into the sheets, he held the photograph high above his head: trying to piece together exactly when the _Sing Blue Silver_ shot had been taken.

_What if it works?_

He had no recollection of it, other than it truly was one of his favourites. The perfect candid, together they were gleaming under the spotlight.

“Then what?” He bellowed, surprising himself for having spoken. “You’re left a poor, knocked up sod on the street. Career’s up the spout and no one’ll want to know you anymore.” He inhaled, letting out a shaky breath. “Like what’s happening to Andy. It’s popularity. It’s _availability_.”

_Or, you could get everything you wanted since you were twenty._

“One man for the rest of your shitty life.”

_Forever._

Sensing his tears were a dust cloud on the rise, John shoved the picture frame back to its spot. Then knocked it over, so he didn’t have to see it. There was a small crack and he winced, however he didn’t think to pick the frame back up to see what else he had ruined.

_You’d have Simon, trapped forever._

In that haze between drunken slumber and wanting to booze the night away; he couldn’t help but ponder further.

_But what if we broke up?_

“You’ve never wanted a child. Never wanted to be tied down.” He groaned, frustrated.

_What if Duran broke up? We’re all getting sick of each other._

“Since when was twenty- _four_ suddenly too late to be married?”

Next off to get hitched was Nick. Mentally counting the days till the all important, raving pink fiasco, the thought hit John harder than his palm rammed his bass. What if the same thing happened again? What if they both had a meltdown? All those _raw and uncut_ emotions from Naples would swirl around to throw them off course.

“Another Duran to say _goodbye_.”

On some level, John would be leaving it up to fate. Though he couldn’t quite shake the feeling, as he fell into a drunken slumber, that he too would have plenty more to answer for. Wanting a wedding, wishing it wasn’t for Nick.


	10. Is There Anyone Out There, Anyone Outside?

Did he call Simon the next day? No. Did he just flunk visiting the studio for three days? Yes. What did it even matter anyways, no Duran was really in the mood to work nor were any satisfied with what they had come up with before their summer jolly. And the next, Nick’s wedding was almost here.

John couldn’t even comprehend how hard this was sure to be on Roger when he returned from honeymooning in Egypt: knowing the drummer would walk back into the studio silently fuming, when he heard that Nick had rearranged a bunch of the drum effects. Again. And killed the guitar. Again.

He supposed, taking another whiff of his precious powder, it would be an entertaining fight. John really didn’t know how many more of those he could take. Perhaps it had taken the bassist a little too long, a little too many petty rows, broken bottles and broken hearts to realise… this wasn’t right.

Something about Duran, the dynamic, wasn’t right.

He took a swig to ponder it.

Something about Duran, the way the so-called _Fab Five_ were working with (or rather, working against) eachother. Each band member seemed to be skewing off on their own tangent, partners now creeping into frame. They no longer were a pentagon, an equally balanced 540 degree pentagon – each filling their 108 percent with their full potential, ideas and creative chemistry.

This wasn’t right. John truly wondered who would be the first to snap, to break, to really bring it to anyone’s attention.

Though, the Andy within him was nagging at his brain, had they _ever_ really just been a five piece? Working together to create a record they were well and truly proud of?

He took a swig to compensate.

_Management_. Taking their share. Taking a huge share. Flaunting it in their faces.

_The chicks._ No chicks were allowed on the road… till Jules, apparently. The outrage at Nick was felt on all parts. Trust had been tested.

_The sound._ Boy, was that a biggie.

_A battle to the death: guitarist versus synths._ John scoffed, thoroughly done with it all.

A rock band was what John had wanted, a perfect mix between the brash _Sex Pistols_ and disco undertones of a _Chic_ bassline. What had he gotten?

He never did find out, did he? Will he?

Maybe John was getting a little ahead of himself. Maybe finishing up _Wild Boys_ would be the trick, mixing it and filming it would be the answer to all his measly problems. He had to look forward and not back to the disaster that was recording in Montserrat. Doing zilch in Australia, holed away in the French chateau doing next to nothing…

Maybe _Wild Boys_ would test them once and for all: Duran were breaking, he had to get drunk every night, he had to numb the pain.

  
Another swift sniff to contemplate.

_Charlie_. Simon had taken so much. So much pressure to write and record. Nick was never happy.

_Rog._ Roger was growing ever more shy, somewhat stunted, John didn’t know what the hell was happening there.  
  


_Ands_. He compromised and compromised. Too much talent. Too much passion. Always losing out.

_Nick_. Now Nick, he swigged, was more controlling than ever by now. _It’s his way or the highway, ain’t it? How many more highways are there?_

_JT_. John exhaled, it was low and pained. The ‘list’ of his faults, his sacrifices and beliefs, what he had wanted for Duran was so cloudy, next to nothing having been checked off. He didn’t know what he was proud off anymore, whether he even truly knew how to play his bass. He could stand there, thrusting his hips, pout and smirk, - _fucking the Japanese virgins with it_ \- but that wasn’t enough for him anymore. Could he even truly play?

_Talent? What talent, Nigel?_

A whole new roster of incredible bass players were coming up. In all sorts of new and incredibly successful bands: _Heaven 17, Level 42_ and _Frankie_ to name a few. The man had competition... if there was ever really any to begin with.

_Didn’t one of them insure his thumb for a million? Can’t be that good._

He didn’t even get to pondering what a threat the new ‘84 sound was. How, if he really forced his mind into it, _political_ everything suddenly seemed to become.

_  
***_  
  


John couldn’t help but wonder endlessly, no matter how many times he was being drilled into his own mattress, growing ever closer to the wedding and band mates he could no longer avoid. Killing himself inside, John questioned if any of his other band mates felt the same way. _Who would be the first to break? Break away?_

He was sure, rolling over from the nameless face that occupied the bed, that it would be him. What fight did he have left in him? What fight had he _ever_ truly had in him?

_Running_ is easier. Running from Duran would have John’s heart in a vice and yet, snorting up another life force, it was damn appealing all of a sudden.


	11. We Can Dance Together All Night, If You’ve Got The Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend the Arena version of _Girls On Film _for this. Enjoy the strip tease!__

_Thursday, August 16_

_36 Hours Till Nick’s Wedding_

“You… you sure we can’t talk ya outta it, _Master_ Bates?!”

Lights shone. Drinks poured. Hips swayed. Moans dropped.

The bash was in full swing. They were sweaty, the poles were greased in that salacious way to emphasise the scandalous set. There were mirrors on the walls and floors, leaving no gyrating to a horny sod’s imagination.

“No, Jules’ still… _still_ the one for me, dickhead!”

Nick. Strippers. Organised by _Andy_. And John. And Simon. And, well not really as he wasn’t there, and Rog.

_Rog could take the blame too, as he didn’t let us order any chicks for his, duh._

The sleazy joint had been hired out for the night, the whole party was feeding off of the cigarette smoke and vodka. The pound notes fluttering all around, the scantily clad birds and lads eagerly awaiting to pleasure them. To greet them. Down south.

“Another drink, JT?”

“Eh,” - _who said that?_ – “yeah, fuck it.”

Nick had been thrown onto the stage, somewhat ambushed by a mildly intoxicated Andy, and now had a face full of g-string. Simon hollered as Nick cringed harder, John found himself straining painfully as some more pornographic moans and thumping beats dropped all around him.

Simon was a painful two metres to his right.

Andy had paid a chick to do the damned dirtiest, mind fucking-est things to Nick. They would be showing the keyboardist no mercy.

With whipped cream. Strawberries and chocolate sauce.

_Damn, was this place creative._ John thought, knowing Nick wouldn’t be getting any of these stains out of his _Anthony Price_ number.

“And the dronin’ engine throbs in time with your beating heart!” A hoard of sweaty Durans sang, fumbling all over eachother as the bass hit and Nick shrieked: tits up and all over him.

The man was faced with… with…

Lights shone. Drinks poured. Hips swayed. Moans dropped.

The man had a face full of cream.

“Yeah, Nick!”

“What a lad.”

“Don’t tell the Mrs!”

“What a good sport, Nick!” Some chick cackled, massaging herself with obscenely slow circular ministrations.

**_Lipstick cherry all over the lens, as she’s falling._ **

****

“Who’s next… _you_ plonker!” The other broad was halfway over to them, a very determined front man in her sights.

Now it was Simon’s turn. _Wait, what?_

Giggling, high pitched and painful, saw two crooked fingernails cocked the singer’s way.

**_And miles of sharp blue water’s coming in,_ **

****

“Oh baby, we’ll make you feel real fucking _hot_ tonight!”

John gagged.

“Just sit right here, let us ride ya Simon!”

John gagged again.

**_Where she lies._ **

John watched, yanking off the tie that was already choking him; as the greedy fuck took a pew.

**_The diving man’s coming up for air,_ **

Two objectively beautiful objects stood at Simon’s side, ordering him to keep still and keep his hands to himself. Sitting down, John noted how wide Simon’s baby blues were, how dark they had become. Coated in a lust the bassist knew far too well. How Simon’s lips had parted, how he focused on the strain in those leathers. _Damn leathers_ , John couldn’t be sure.

**_Cause the crowd all love,_ **

They flirted. They cheered. They brushed up and down on eachother, the girls were cackling as together they shed the lace adorning their ample chests and tossed very little fabric Simon’s way.

**_Pulling dolly by the hair._ **

John sat there, sweating profusely.

**_By the hair._ **

They groaned wildly, tossing off their fishnet stockings far from the stage. The heels were off too – _huh, strange but does that mean that they… oh fuck!_

John shot up, with a screech.

**_And she wonders how she ever got here,_ **

The birds were all over him. Falling about in his lap, nipping and sucking at skin, obscene moans dropping all around him. Fingers everywhere. Makeup smears. Dripping. Groaning.

**_As she goes under again._ **

John was surely yelling now, being deafened by his own ruddy track.

**_Girls on Film! Girls on Film!_ **

Simon was face to face with tons of boob, too much hairspray and runaway lipstick; having the time of his life. John could tell by the grunts. The jokes he was making and the reactions the chicks gave him, humouring him, pressing themselves deeper into Simon’s mullet.

**_Girls On Film! Got your picture!_ **

The way Simon’s hands were running up the blonde’s back, ruffling her hair and bringing her in even closer.

**_Girls On Film._ **

****

“Fuckin’ hell!” He spat, practically running out of the joint. “ _Bastard!_ ”

John threw himself out the door, silently fuming. He fumbled with his pockets, hunting for a packet of cigarettes. Before cursing, kicking the brick wall and shrieking because he needed his toes. Damn no good cigarettes were lying limp on the table back inside.

_If Andy fucking pockets them, I swear to—_

  
“John?”

He kicked another wall.


	12. Only Came Outside To Watch The Nightfall With The Rain

“Rog, oh, oh hey,” he pivoted, searching for the drummer’s silhouette.

“What was that about?”

The red light district was alive with whores, pasty white men with dough to splash out on said whores, and surely paparazzi were on the hunt; they’re after _them_. Without a breath, John lurched forward and grabbed Roger by the hand. Whirling them both around the back of the joint, near the fire exit.

“John, what the fuck was that?”

Doused with moonlight, John squinted hard to make out Roger’s figure. The strange blue light beamed down on them, making his face seem more angular than usual. Bringing out laughter and scowl lines, the heavy bags under the drummer’s eyes. Which showed obvious concern; John noted with a sigh.

“John?” Roger prompted again, this time with a hand on John’s quaking shoulder.

“‘Ave you a fag, Frog?”

Cocking his lips, “I’m right _here_ with one.”

Sensing the low blow, John couldn’t help but snort. Though he wasn’t mad, at least not at the drummer.

Roger brandished his cigarettes, holding the packet up to John. Instead of swiping them, John simply parted his mouth and waited. A tender touch ensued, as Roger settled the cancer stick between those pinky lips; as he flickered open the lighter and John engulfed a shaky breath.

Passing the cigarette back to his fellow Taylor, John’s pulse began to flare again. “The shit was that, Rog?!” He barked, gesturing wildly.

It took Roger a moment, as he engulfed a large breath; angling the smoke away from John like a true gentleman would.

“Was what, John?”

Surely it was the alcohol and his good for nothing eyes playing tricks on him. But Roger was, he shook his head in disbelief, _smirking_ at him.

“What’s that look for?” John asked, rolling the cigarette about in his fingers before passing it back.

“What look? This look?” Roger inhaled. Exhaled. Smirked.

“Yeah, that! You dick!”

“Nothin’, mate.” Roger broke off into a little laugh as John stood there dumbfounded.

“ _No_ , Rog, am I… you know?” He was cautious, the realisation starting to hit him.

“The outburst? Yeah John. You’re _jealous_ , aren’t ya?” Roger wagged his thick brows, John gaped.

“I’m… fuck. Jealous of a couple, y’know, bitchy _strippers?!_ ”

Roger rolled his eyes, at least John thought that’s what he did. They were no longer paved blue in the moonlight, having shucked themselves into another even darker corner.

“It’s not the strippers, John.”

“It’s… it’s not?” He asked, bringing the cigarette to his face. Blowing the smoke to his left, “then what is it?”

“Really? Do you need it spellin’ out for you? You can’t be that wasted, yet.” Roger cackled, putting out their shared smoke with his boot.

John nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Wind tousling his hair, the sudden shiver that overtook them both; didn’t do much to help with the innocent tone that rolled off of Roger’s heavenly lips: “you’re jealous, John, of the _attention_.”

_Attention_.

“Of their hands running all over him.”

_Attention_.

“Of their breasts, right up in his face.”

_Attention_.

“When was the last time you wore any lace for him?”

_Atten-what?!_

“Wait, _what?!_ ” That broke John’s bout of silent rage. “How’d you know ‘bout that?!” He cried, blushing, thankful that the midnight hid it.

Roger chuckled, mocking him.

“Huh! Andy!”

Roger chuckled in agreement, mocking him further.

“ _Bastard_.” John ground out.

“Well yeah, we should talk about _that_ ,” Roger let it linger, John blushed impossibly darker; “some other time. But for now, Johnny, you’re jealous.”

“Because they gave my luv a lap dance to our own song?”

“To _Girls On Film_ for a laugh, yeah.”

“Curse you Rog and the tequila, makin’ you all talkative and straight forward!” John lurched forward, clutching at the drummer’s side. “What am I going to do ‘bout it?”

Somewhat puzzled, somewhat turned on (John could tell – _damn Gio, is two hands even enough?!)_ Roger eyed him a final time; before slipping from his sight.

“Curse you Rog… and shitty tequila,” he muttered, slumping down the wall to the strip club.

He inhaled his first breath of what he felt was somewhat clean air; knowing his own hard on had long since dropped off. He was surely in no mood to take it any further, with any drink or lad tonight; nor was John in the right frame of mind to order himself a lap dance. To make Simon jealous or not, to pleasure himself or not.

John rose to his feet, wishing he was way drunker, strutting back around to the front of the club. He didn’t even go back in for his jacket, it wasn’t the first time he’d left his soul in a sleazy strip joint so what difference did this make?  
  


***  
  


Silently fuming the whole taxi drive home, John’s head played those few frames of Simon. The girls, Simon, the boobs, Simon, the lace, Simon… it didn’t stop right through the night. Never faded to grey, nor blurred into mind shattering static.

He couldn’t shake it from his mind. He hasn’t heard _Girls On Film_ since the yacht. Since things explained on the yacht: hearts were torn and hearts were numbed.

_What you gonna do?_

Tossing the last of this week’s stash on his bedside table, John huffed and numbed tonight’s pain.

_Gonna live my life._

The looks of pleasure and fulfilment on Simon’s face, whether he was hamming it up to steal the spotlight or not…

_How do you feel?_

Damn did that _hurt_.

_I’m lonely._


	13. You Know That I’m Not Taking Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a little rejigging, please enjoy one of my favourite chapters so far. In contrast to the Rog scene in Bird Of Paradise as you’ll see...

Another dreary night slipped by, growing dangerously close to the next Duran departure and album mayhem. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have come here. Though John couldn’t help it, he’s driving himself mad.

His golden _Aston Martin_ screeched its way into park, he really had sped his way over without word of warning. Sweating, brushing it from his brow, he thoroughly hoped that the miracle of life wasn’t happening right behind that closed door: that would only mess him up further. Knowing that she was about ready too—

“John?” Light eyes widened comically, “what even are you…” her voice trailed off.

John’s gaze headed downwards, shameful, as she lay on the porch swing.

“John? Is everythin’ okay? Andy!” She called, beckoning her husband over.

The pint size guitarist came running, stopping dead in his tracks upon being face to face with his bassist checking out his heavily pregnant wife.

“John? The fuck are you doin’ ‘ere? Come in.” Andy boomed in his thick accent. “Arent’cha staying at _The Savoy_ tonight? Why’d you come so far North?”

John didn’t say a word, brushing past them and heading for the living room. Sitting down, his gaze fell over to Tracey again. Who was a little winded, he could tell, a little red in the face.

He shot a deathly glare at her stomach, ever so close to term.

“Uh, Trace, can you give me an’ Tigger a minute? Wait no, don’t get up,” Andy chuckled, helping to smooth out the cushions and ease his wife into a comfortable sitting position. “John, come to the kitchen. Babe, call if you need anything.”

Tracey nodded, eyes following John’s shaky form out the door. John paused, whirling about on his heel, suddenly feeling like a total tit for not having said a simple hello. He tried, lips parting and searching for sound. He found that he couldn’t, his gaze dropping straight back to her rounded stomach: baby Wilson-Taylor on show.

“Trace, how do you know you’re ready for a baby?” He blurted, kicking himself.

Tracey’s gaze broadened, John swallowed down his batch of nerves.

“Really, John?” She cackled, palms coming to rest above her child. “You just _know_.”

Somewhat stunned, John admired her for her words. How sure she sounded of herself. Though he realised, picking his jaw up off of the tile floor, that he couldn’t say anymore. He closed the door behind him.

***  
  


“Tracey she, uh, she’s lookin’ good… _radiant_ ,” John coughed, clasping around his steaming mug of tea. _Radiant? You dickhead._

Andy couldn’t help but laugh, John wondered what was funny.

“Yeah, she does look _radiant_ Johnny. Saw you checkin’ out my pregnant wife on the way in.” He glared, laughter dulling to nothing.

Embarrassment flaring on his skin, John took another large gulp.

They tried to pick the conversation up again. John deftly steered them away from work, thankfully at first Andy asked constantly about Roger’s cathedral wedding. John deftly steered himself clear of the after party, then the after-after party; though was already sure the guitarist detected something was amiss.

“Why are you here John?” Andy’s voice had softened.

Chewing his bottom lip, John began to drum lightly on the table. He knew exactly why he was here, the questions were practically burning his tongue and yet, when he finally managed to meet Andy’s worried eyes; he couldn’t speak.

  
“It’s just... I...”

“John? JT, what is it, you’re makin’ me worried by keeping silent.”

_Fuck!_ At that, without another thought, John burst into tears.

  
“I n-need help, man, please!” He sobbed, wondering why.

Fatherly instincts already kicking in, John was enveloped in rather skinny arms. Andy clutched tight to his stripy dark blue jacket: the one that had the matching shirt to only confuse matters more. John wept softly, Andy ran an unusually tender hand through his brown ringlets; shushing him.

“John; what is it, you never… okay yeah, you do, but you ‘aven’t broken down like this in yonks!” John tried to laugh at those words, swiping the water from his face.

“Dunno man, it’s just,” he broke off, cursing himself for trying to skirt around it. “ _Simon_.”

“Simon?”

Both Taylors’ gazes shot up.

They whirled around, the grip Andy had on John’s shoulders began to falter as they were faced with Tracey; who was standing proud although she was panting softly.

“Babe, I told you to yell,” John watched as Andy dashed to her side; helping her to sit at their kitchen table.

With a small huff, “I did, you didn’t hear me!”

The two Wilson-Taylors shared a moment of giggling and understanding, John just sat there thoroughly convinced he shouldn’t intrude further.

Feeling awkward, staring aimlessly at his abandoned tea cup, John stumbled to his feet. “You know what, it don’t matter. I’ll… I’ll uh, yeah, see you at the altar, Ands.”

Wiping his eyes, John reached for his discarded blazer, only to meet a look he could only describe as sorrow forming on Tracey’s complexion.   
  


“Nonsense JT, you just got here,” _two hours ago._

“John, just sit down.” A soft voice beckoned him back to his seat. “Tell us, what’s both’rin you and why you came all this way. _Please_ , for me.”

John’s gaze met Tracey’s. Both sets of eyes were wide and defeated, though her’s showed such a strength and determination that it was almost enough to make him stay.

“John?” She questioned, wrapping her hand around his.


	14. You Know That I’m Not Waiting Anymore

The bassist pulled away, before realising what an absurd thing that was to do. Slowly, cautious knowing Andy was right there breathing down his neck; John sealed his open palm around hers and bought it up to her face.

He kissed her knuckles once, twice, before placing her hand back on the table. More than ready to let Andy thump him.

Rolling some words around, John inhaled and exhaled a couple of times; before biting his cuticles. The ultimate tell that he was nervous.

“Really John, just say it. It’s okay, no one’s gonna throw you out or anything, alright mate?” Andy motioned for him to keep going.

“Okay.”

John staggered his gait; coughing out: “How do you… you know, know you’re ready for a baby?”

Now; he was unable to look away from where Tracey’s manicured fingertips lay atop of the cream lacquer.

A guffaw, “what Johnny?”

“I said,” he broke off, searching for the warmth in Andy’s eyes; “how do you know you’re ready to have your baby?”

“You said ‘a’.”

John coughed.

“As in, on the whole. Not just ours.” Tracey confirmed, lips cocking up into a small smirk as John squirmed.

John nodded, shameful.

Andy and Tracey’s eyes met, silently asking who would like to answer. Instead, John focused hard on his movements, as Andy stood beside his wife on her stool; wrapping his arms around her bump and resting his chin on her shoulder.

His voice was stern, there was a whole new wave of authority coming out of the guitarist. John gasped, suddenly hooked.

“Nobody ever knows they’re ready for a child, John.” Andy paused, looking to his wife for support. “That’s what… makes it so special. Everyday will be somethin’ new, somethin’ we’ve gotta get through together. As a _family_.”

“It’ll all be worth it, knowing _who_ we’re doing it for.” Tracey added, voice wistful.

John followed their collective gaze down to her stomach, she palmed herself lightly.

“Family comes first, JT. I mean it.” Andy confirmed.

He didn’t know how to respond, red in the face and sure that another wave of tears were soon to break free.

  
“No matter where Duran are, John, I’ll always be thinkin’ and missin’ my lil peanut,” Tracey blushed at Andy’s words, “family means the world.”

With a small smile, the warmth never leaving her voice, “there’s something I want to tell ya, John.”

He croaked out a barely audible: “yeah, Trace?”

She was beaming, pride was radiating all around her and John could’ve sworn the glow bought about by the pregnancy myth really was real. She _was_ glowing, absolutely glowing.

“We’re havin’ a _boy_ , we’ve known all this time.”

John’s jaw hung open.

“We didn’t want the press involved, comin’ up with stupid names. Tracey doesn’t need any of it. We wanted it to be a secret. Nobody knows, John.”

“Not even…” he was stunned, turning to Andy, “Rog?”  
  


Andy shook his head.

“ _Wow_ …” Now he was smiling again, “that’s, you know, amazing. I’m so... so _happy_ for you both.”

“So keep your gob shut, Johnny! Don’t make us regret telling ya!” Andy cackled, sending a wink his way.

He couldn’t deny, the two sharing such a secret with him did really help to cheer him up. There was a warmth blossoming within him, not too deep inside.

  
“I won’t, you have my word.” He answered, with fervour.

John followed the mischievous glint in the guitarist’s eye, chuckling softly as Andy placed a huge and sloppy kiss to his wife’s cheek. Tracey laughed, bucking him off, before reeling in to kiss him good and proper.

  
_Now that, that’s love right there._

John watched them. Floored.

_Take notes._

Breaking away, a whole new swing in her step, Tracey corned him, desperate to know more. “So why don’t you really tell us what’s on your mind, John. That’s not the sorta thing a man like _you_ would just come out with now, is it?”

Flushing even brighter, John smiled through his “no ma’am.”

Sniggering, “c’mon then Johnny, out with it!”

He told them all that he could remember, starting with the freakouts. The bits that they needed to know anyways.

“...And this was when, at Roger’s wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“Before or after you flirted with his mother?”

“Shove off, wanker!...”

Falling back into relatively easy territory, Andy at his side, John let rip: on _Simon_ and his more notorious freakout.

“...The mornin’ of the wedding, yeah...”

From security, to moving on, to growing up together, to well, you know.

“...Charlie what on deck?”

“Started _bawling_. It all just came out. I just sat there...”

To their night together. Nothing happened, he simply drifted off, thankful that his front man hadn’t let him go all night.

“...And then at the airport?”

“Half assed hug goodbye. That was it.”

“Cameras?”  
  


“No, for once, _none_...”

John would never forget the look of bemusement on Andy’s face, when telling him just what their front man had drunkenly admitted to wanting. Nor would he forget his _randy bastard won’t wait around for you forever, Tigger,_ speech.

“...‘Ave you seen or talked to Simon since?”

“No.”

Though he made sure not to lie to Andy.

“I just can’t get that picture of him out of me head! The tears. His eyes… he’d never looked so lost, it was all pourin’ out. Then again, and again. It’s coming back to me.”

“What is, Johnny?”

“The same thing. He’s told me before. What he wants in the future. I was an asshole and dismissed him every time.” He groaned. “Whatever happened to havin’ _fun_?!”

Telling them he was more conflicted than ever, beginning to warm up to such a crazy; life changing contract.

“ _Contract?!_ ” Both Andy and Tracey were howling. “Since when is starting a family known as signing a contract?”

“Of course you would see it as a deal, you idiot.”

John blushed. “Well, you know you’re legally signing away half of your dough to her, man, so yeah… marriage is a contract. Plus no more shagging random birds.”

Andy slapped him.

“Wow, ‘kay then.”

“You really are as dumb as a post, aren’t you Johnny?”

John’s brows furrowed. “Point being?”

“You have no idea what being married means.” 

“Or in love,” John scoffed in rebuff.

Andy hummed, John couldn’t tell whether the guitarist agreed with him or not.

John would also never forget the whole marriage lecture. He was thoroughly in stitches; it all having poured out of _Andy_ of all people.

“Or a parent, not yet anyways.”

John swept the sweat from his brow.

“No,” he agreed, gaze falling to his lap. “Charlie wants a baby and I, fuck I, I want _him_.”

“You want him to be happy, don’t you JT?”

“He’ll be ‘appy, once I’m out of his way.” John spat, pulse surging. “When he finds the _real_ woman of his dreams. His Rio. When do I get my dream girl?”

“Girl?” Tracey sniggered.

  
_Damn. Cornered._

“Y’know what I meant!”

_Keep digging the hole, Taylor._

John met Andy’s eyes: knowing that the man was still speaking truthfully.

“I think I, I might just, y’know uh…”

_Keep digging that hole._ _Right to the Earth’s core._

“Want a baby too, JT?”

Gaze firmly planted on his lap, John nodded once, ever so fast if Tracey blinked she would’ve missed it.

“It’s nice to see you coming around,” _to the idea_ – John finished her sentence for her.

“Is it though?” He barked.

Andy shrugged. Tracey followed.  
  


“He’s too good to me, what happens when I change my mind?”

_When I fuck it all up on a three day bender?_

“You don’t go changin’ your mind about your kids, John, whether you have one or four.”

At that, John let a single, languid tear pelt his cheek. He didn’t dare to raise his gaze, couldn’t bare the heat.

Andy picked up from where his wife left off. “Nothin’ will tear you two apart. He’s too good for you and yet he stays by your side.”

Another tear.

“John, don’t you see what’s happening?”

  
It had all poured out of him so fast. They’d covered immense ground. Now where did it leave him?

Everything he had ever believed about never wanting to settle down, to be on the road constantly, living out of a suitcase and wasting thousands on flights… were turning his world upsidown. Suddenly, his _Concorde_ to JFK couldn’t take off.

“W-whats, you know, happening?” He questioned.

His _Concorde_ didn’t need too. Where was he headed that was suddenly more important than—

“ _Home_.” John voiced the thought out loud. “With Simon. A kid with Simon… oh fuck me.”

Andy sniggered, it was clear to John that the guitarist had a naughty little scenario forming in his mind of he and a certain front man getting busy.

  
“Not like _that_ , you ass!”

“It’s what you people have gotta do to make a baby, Johnny boy.” Andy sniggered, John flushed.

The whole baby lecture was tough for John to hear. He had to get it out in the open though unfortunately, the poor bassist left the Wilson-Taylors more confused than on arrival.

To put it simply: it’s one or the other. It’s Simon, or…

_Marriage? Hell no. A child…_

It would be a pity if John drank away those thoughts, as though that wasn’t all that he did.

_Tomorrow_ his mind whispered, _call Charlie tomorrow._

But the wedding’s tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Wedding time....


	15. Fog In My Mind, Darkens In My Eyes

_Saturday August 18, 1984_

_Nick’s Wedding Day_

Resting against the satin headboard, John cast a shaky glance down and to his right. The velvet curtains let slip the summer sunlight through, only just peeking, barely able to coat them both in her warmth. He debated whether to scurry over to them, to open the curtains and let the light thaw the icy figure sleeping soundly beside him.

He did, creeping on his tip toes.

Slipping back under the satin covers, John brushed the crystal details and sighed at the feel under his palm. _A few more days,_ he breathed. A few more days of callous free hands, of smooth skin.

Now, his gaze was more fond as it dropped to his right. The body began to turn, face still hidden away in the violet satin; which made a small ‘shushing’ sound to voice that. John’s pulse picked up.

Without thinking, or maybe too much thinking, John angled his head down; still clutching at the security of the sheets covering his frame; nudging the body awake.

His lips descended into a slightly moist neck, brushing lightly up the column of that throat. Another shift and more skin was made available to him. John tread gently on this ground, knowing all around him his Earth turned to fire. He silently prayed, lips hovering above another parted set, that he would get another chance. Danger was truly on the wind.

“Kiss you g’mornin,” John breathed, not daring to touch anymore.

He quickly retreated, now back to sitting up right, feeling scorned for having gotten far too close. For trying again, for confusing his already confused little head further.

He just can’t keep himself away.

Now John didn’t know where to look, he hadn’t bothered with his glasses. Which meant that somehow, the gravitational pull of the body was too strong for him. The body’s aura, _colour and shape:_ John had it memorised. Bound to muscle memory, it’s a _sin_ , for when his eyes couldn’t help him pave the way. His eyes didn’t need too.

He was fidgeting with the sheets; that were still firmly around his mostly nude figure. John had noticed, ashamed so, that he really had a bit of a stomach now. New flesh, new stretch marks, new red and raw patches of irritated skin. He had always been self conscious, hiding under multiple layers of fancy fabric but here, still wrapped in the cocoon of the bedsheet, he didn’t feel so on display.

So used, his body so battered and bruised. Knowing that it was John himself who pictured those wounds, who pierced and prodded more at his own skin: wanting it raw; bleeding open.

Without word, eyes still focused on the rich paisley detail under his palm; John’s lips parted and involuntarily, or completely voluntarily, he gave in. Game over.

The kiss was slow, deep and yet quick and painful. Forgiving, not forgiving enough. Fulfilling, leaving him cold.

John was the first to slip out of the bed this time, glasses now firmly in place.

He showered alone, ignoring any (if there even were any) of his body parts stirring. Trying to perk up, to find comfort and ache for touch. Instead, John spent longer rinsing his mullet, practically blind as the boiling water cascaded down and his figure was lost amongst the steam.

He groomed himself alone, cutting his jaw with his razor blade. Running two shaking hands over it, blood trickling down his fingertips. Running two shaking hands through his mullet, John teased and combed, teased and combed: never quite happy with the result. His makeup was patchy, eyeliner uneven. Nor was he convinced the lipgloss shade fit his palette.

He dressed alone, having opted for no tie and an open shirt knowing that this way: he had full control. He wouldn’t need any help. Whipping on his long black blazer, with rich patterned lapels, John shivered. The fabric did nothing to bring any warmth to his skin. Pulling up his trousers and tucking in his white linen shirt, he still felt the same. As though he was too big for the frame. Wrapping his ruby red scarf around his waist, the fabric interweaved through his belt loops and nothing. The same. Too big for the frame.

Placing a cool hand on a steaming mirror, John wasn’t scolded somehow. He did, however, wait for the glass to crack under his very hand. For it to shatter, so he didn’t have to see the mess of a man he was becoming. The mess of the man behind him.

The man behind him, also dressed in a white shirt, was thoroughly lost in his blazer. Rumpled sleeves, boxy fit. His belt buckle fought for light, silver contrasting against the harsh black. Though his hair gleamed under the chandelier, his hair glimmered almost as bright as their antique golden mirror before them.

Lips were pressed against John’s neck, ruining the powder. Small ministrations, forced and resentful, told him that for today they would leave it. They would abandon any sense of animosity, ill feeling, towards each other or otherwise. What’s the use in fighting?

John inhaled sharply, the groaned in defeat, the mantra forming messily in his head. Leave it in this hotel room, enjoy the party, leave it in this hotel room, enjoy the party.

_What is it you say? Eyes and teeth?_

Somehow the mirror was cracking under John’s heavy guise, amplified by his contact lenses. He couldn’t tell if it would further shred itself into thousands of tiny shards or not; when Simon moved into frame.

_Leave it in this hotel room, enjoy the party._


	16. Eyes Like An Angel, So Wide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic wouldn’t be complete without more soft JoNi. They need eachother. 💜

“Are you ready Master Bates?” John coughed out, wanting to antagonise him though his heart wasn’t really in it. “Your _Rio_ girl is waitin’ for you.”

He lay lifeless on the bed, watching the keyboardist pace up and down and up and down what would become the honeymoon suite within a few hours. Muttering something about sweating, having messed up his eyeliner and having a trembling hand, Nick frolicked about looking less than perfect for a change. Still graceful.

John just watched Nick blankly, as he headed back to the mirror; glancing down at all the opened and abandoned cosmetics. Every step Nick took was amplified by his suit, the satin brushing together, adding to his pained stride.

He was nervous, John could tell. Pasty skin an even lighter shade of pasty. Nick was never nervous, never questioning his makeup and his skill. So this sight of him, oddly ruffled, was both concerning and rather endearing if the bassist was being honest with himself. John knew, though he wasn’t sure how he would do it, that he would need to help. He would need Nick to trust him and _together_ they would get through it.

John just sat there, watching Nick mutter and fumble a further ten seconds; before upping with a crooked smile. Perhaps the bassist was hoping to soothe his own wandering mind for a few moments: if he could make Nick happy today, by helping him and comforting him – John’s day itself would be made.

“Why don’t you use this one?” John held out an eyeshadow palette, full of ravishing purples and bright yellows. “I think they’ll work pretty well with, you know,” he gestured meekly, to the lilac coating Nick’s face, “ _her_ lipstick.”

They both smiled at that.

“You think so? It’s not too much?” Nick’s voice wavered, eyeing the yellow.

“You’re always too much, Nicky.”

Chuckling softly, John bought his free hand up to cup Nick’s face; immediately grinning as he felt the keyboardist unclench beneath him.

“Nick, I’m kidding. I _do_. I really do think,” he paused, eyeing his chosen shade, “yellow _Palooza_ will fit perfectly with Julie’s lilac _Sweet Tooth_ shade.”

There was another hesitation on Nick’s end, though John didn’t draw back.

“Shall I help you? You know I really would’ve thought you’d planned your makeup look by now, Nicky.” He giggled softly, as Nick unveiled a line of brushes. “I know you.”

“ _You_ help _me_ , Nigel?” Nick cut himself off with a low bellow, though John could still see the insecurity in his eyes. Then, soft and possibly desperate: “… Yes, please.”

John’s gaze widened in surprise, before narrowing in compassion.

“Of course.” _Don’t cock it up Taylor, he’ll never let you live it down._

He motioned for Nick to perch before the mirror, helping him to swoop his ashen blonde locks back. Together they got through it, John sweeping the colour across Nick’s lids as they fluttered softly in response to the light feathery kiss of the brush. John following Nick’s words, letting his big brother narrate. Not only to help John through but he knew that it would help _The Controller_ to relax, voicing his thoughts and hearing himself think.

John silently prayed, adding the dusty lilac shade to the outer corner of Nick’s eyelids; that his big brother would be happy with him. And therefore, not send his squad of flamingos to attack him later…

Leaning down a final time, John brushed a light layer of highlight, this new glittery powder that Nick had been saving for the occasion, over his creamy cheeks. Using the fan brush, as instructed, John swept back and forth and back and forth; before letting Nick add the pop of blush to liven up his already striking face.

Though together they had spent years learning and perfecting their eyeliner techniques; John was not ready to make that mistake here. He handed the kohl pencil straight to Nick, grinning stupidly as Nick painted his fingertips, ready to smudge the lines he would make.

“You’ll still be applying eyeliner with your fingers at _fifty_ , Bates.” John joked, nudging him slightly.

“Fifty? Why not sixty?” Nick boomed back, not taking his hazel eyes off of his reflection.  
  


John shrugged.

“You too, I can see you wearin’ it _decades_ from now.”

John shrugged again, not wanting to try and decipher that image. _A balding, wrinkly odd and long forgotten bassist…_

Now, for the lipstick. John could see Nick tense again beneath him and he tried desperately to keep a steady hand, not wanting to ruin the artwork that sat near helpless before him. And by that he meant both Nick and the thousands of pounds worth of paintings and sculpture that added an effervescent glow to the suite.

Without word, eyeing Nick heavily; John nodded and Nick’s pretty lips fell open. The keyboardist’s eyes slipped shut, he tipped his head upwards and John caught his chin, lining then painting Nick’s lips.

Grabbing Nick a tissue, he blotted the excess colour before John gave him another coat. His hand was oddly steady as he worked, from sweeping the lilac onto Nick’s guise to helping him with his striking salmon blazer. To adjusting his crisp collar, to slotting in the ruby rose into his lapel.

Taking a step back, John couldn’t hide his stupidly wide _Cheeky Cheeky Nigel_ smile as it overtook him. His whole body was alight with sparks, his eyes were already beginning to _hurt_ , staring at the walking piece of bubblegum keyboardist before him. John shed a tear, quickly wiping it as Nick pivoted around on his heel. Now face to face with his best friend.

“So?” Nick asked, soft palms running down the salmon coat tails.

Now beaming, trying to stop a stream of tears, John nodded over and over; before laughing.

“Perfect, nauseating but _perfect_.”

“Oh, _thank_ _you_ , Nigel!”

Nick threw himself at John which shocked him somewhat. Though for only a split second, before John got the hint. He quickly buried his face into Nick’s shoulder, turning away so he wouldn’t stain the fabric, clutching incredibly tight to his best friend who was almost ready for the biggest step of his life.

His best friend, who he’d be saying goodbye too at that altar. Learning to share, learning to give Nick his space.

Pulling away with a sniff, John cursed as the water began to cloud his vision. Fumbling for a tissue, the hand on his shoulder shook him out of it. This time, John let Nick fix him.

Neither man seemed too worried about the time or how long they took. Together they worked on John’s palette; Nick brightening up what John just couldn’t before back in his own room a mere hour ago.

Nick was known to be fashionably late though John would never keep him from getting to that aisle on time: 2pm sharp.

Satisfied with his look, skin glowing under the keyboardist’s very dainty hand, John upped and tensed. Thinking, pouting, running his fingertips across his lapels, brushing away the stray lint.

“Mind if I use your bathroom?” John motioned to the en-suite, still plucking at the fluff he was sure wasn’t really on his sleeve, just needing a distraction.  
  


“Yeah, okay.”

John dove in, locking the door.

Steady hands long forgotten, he fumbled with his inner jacket pocket; searching for it. Smirking when he found it, grinning when he ripped it open and poured it out. Stifling a groan as up it went, screaming hot through his aching veins; trying not to slam his fist into the sink.

“Johnny! Did you say Giovanna’s with Julie Anne?”

John almost missed Nick’s cry, kicking at the door.

“Hmm? Oh,” another sniff, “y-yeah, man, she’s there… don’t worry, Jules’ ain’t doing a runner!” John barked, shoving the empty packet back into his pocket, he couldn’t leave any clues.

He flushed the toilet, ran the tap, as he fixed his hair and fanned himself. Seeing the light blush coat his cheeks, knowing it could give the game away.

_Why can’t I be a fridge? To stay cool?_

John stumbled out the door, straight into a face full of sickening baby pink candy cane, bubblegum, cavity inducing Nicholas.

He couldn’t throw up on him though, then Nick really _would_ be sending those frightening, feral and ferocious _flamingos_ hisway…


	17. The Union Of The Snake Is On The Climb

The wedding was nothing short of spectacular, that was really the only way John could describe it.

Julie Anne literally strut down the aisle to her groom, there was a collective gasp as she revealed her fishtail gown with heavy lace accents; asymmetric ruffles and an elaborate headpiece. John was sure, chuckling to himself, that the guests’ reaction to Nick’s already avant guard look voiced a bigger surprise and intrigue. Our outrage.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

The crowd fell to seated, all eyes drawn to Nick and Julie Anne up there. Shining.

John hoped, for his big brother’s sake that it was outrage. Nick was always one to make a statement and it was clear today: standing proud at that altar, he’d done more than that.

“To celebrate the union of…”

The ceremony flowed on. John’s gaze was heavy, eyes watery, as he decided against letting his eyes wander the rich pink walls, golden pillars and crystal chandeliers: to remain on Nick. He couldn’t tell if he was more proud or upset to see his big brother so happy. Even envious, perhaps elated, that Nick had a woman of his own to share all those quirks with. That artistic side, that _dark_ and controlling side that was beginning to creep through whether the band were working or not… _stop it, Taylor._

He shook the thought from his head. Now wasn’t the time for hostility.

“Nick, do you take the…”

Instead, John focused his bleary gaze to Simon. Simon, who was sat right beside him; also caught in the trance of the keyboardist gleaming upfront.

John wanted to smile, he really did, though instead he leant back in his rickety chair only a couple rows from Nick’s parents upfront.

“Julie Anne, do you take the…”

His gaze fell back to Simon.

“If there is anybody, who sees no reason these two should be wed. Speak now, of forever hold your peace.”

The room fell silent, an audible sigh of relief could be heard.

“Then, I now pronounce you…”

Within moments, an almost sorry glance Nick’s way (not that the groom was even looking) there was a ruffle and John ducked out of there. Wiping the tears, of rubbing his nose?

“Husband and wife. Nick, you may _kiss_ your bride.”

The guests erupted into a sea of cheers, whistles and the odd cat call. John didn’t really hear much of it, ears ringing for other numbing reasons. He continued to traipse through this floor of _The Savoy,_ hunting high and low for a bathroom, a closet, anything. Any form of escape. Now.  
  


***  
  


Shoving open the door, John dove headfirst into the furthest toilet stall, slamming it shut and locking it with force.

Kicking down the lid, he fell atop of the toilet and his hands jittered as they ran up and down his sides, panting stupidly, trying to find that sacred bag of—

“ _Fuck!_ ” He screeched.

He’d left the last of it in his room. Far away, holed up, locked away on the other side of _The Savoy_. The second floor from the top, he cursed violently.

John had been so touchy that morning, that he had simply fled out of the room with one vial. Headed straight to Nick, he hadn’t even realised till just now. He didn’t have a room key.

“Oh, fuck me!” John spat, falling out of the door; looking more rumpled and messy than when he had dove inside.

He immediately apologised to the three old men who glared daggers his way.  
  


Instead of heading to the sinks, John hightailed it out of there. Rounding a secluded corner and slamming his head up against the wall. He was desperate to ‘beat’ out the shakes, the craving, knocking any and all sense of him that demanded the drugs. His _get out of jail free_ card, his excuse. His survival.

He didn’t get very far.

The bassist was near in tears, the want was so much that the headache behind his eyes was piercing and he was sure; falling to the floor in a ball, a rumpled heap of a man, the room was spinning. He was shaking, itching all over and all he could do was scratch.

Scratch his arms, tossing up his blazer sleeves and pawing at his skin. Till he saw those tell tale stark markings, scraping all over his skin. Three huge, deep scarlet lines inked themselves across his pasty forearm.

John pulled back, with a hiss.

Throwing himself back up against the wall, head jittering, he shoved down his crumpled sleeves and panted heavily. In and out. In, hold it, and out.

There was no way he’d be making it through the reception now. He needed that key. He’d only force himself further to the edge; knowing getting wasted on shite white wine wouldn’t be enough.

He needed to beat the headache from him. And steal a room key. And damn fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my dilemma: I have a good 8k of fic for the chapters _after _what should come next. Ideas are there but Nick’s reception isn’t writing itself. Nor am I, apparently. I’m so damn close to having Wild Boys complete...__
> 
> _  
> _So I assume this fic is going on hiatus a little while, I hope to have some more readers and interaction again soon. 🌹🌹_  
>  _


	18. You See Ways By The Door, Pulling Over Years Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m finally getting over this fic’s writers block. I hope I don’t dissapoint!

Sprinting around the place, he had long fled cocktail hour with a rum and coke (like the old days), practically crashing face first into—

“Ands? Ands!”

The guitarist was in the suite opposite and to the left of his; fumbling about with his suit carrier and the lock.

“Johnny! Would you mind?” Andy didn’t give him the chance to answer, tossing his suit over John’s shoulder; he winced as the cool hanger hit his neck.

“I thought you wasn’t comin’ till much later, man. Cos a Tracey? And, you know, baby.”

“I said I’ll be ‘ere for 7 ‘o’ clock JT, in time for dinner. It’s nearly half six now, gotta change.”

“It is?!” His pupils broadened. Turning back to his room door, “how long was I in there, wastin’ away?”

“In where?” Andy asked, opening the door to lead John inside his suite.

“Ain’t this Rog’s room?”

“Yeah, I ain’t planning on stayin’ the night, Tracey’s at her parents. If nothing happens and she doesn’t call, if it gets too late; then I might crash. I dunno.” Andy let him into _Roger’s_ suite. “And yes, Froggie gave me his key. Wait,” the guitarist span around to lock the door. “In where were you wasting away?”

“In me room, right? Oh no, it’s been like… _ten_ minutes since I ‘ad to sneak the key from Simon’s blazer and come up here to get away from it all.” He lied.

“Johnny, you said you left at cocktail hour. That would’ve been after three. The hell have ya’s been doing up here alone all this time?”

John blanked, chewing his bottom lip.

“Oh no.”

John shifted, uncomfortably.

“John you didn’t.”

John coughed, uncontrollably.

“For fuck’s sake, John!” He pushed the no longer so rangy bassist atop of the bedspread; who giggled as his ass made contact with the cool fabric. “You promised Nick you wouldn’t use any today, it’s his wedding for God’s sake. Don’t ya have any self control?”

Andy’s voice hitched, he was practically screaming in a way John hadn’t heard from him in years. At least, not directed his way. Nick’s way, over an over used and overpowering synth track sure – never at John. Andy _never_ got this mad that his eyes were bulging and his skin was hot to the touch concerning him.

“Course you don’t, you tosser.” Andy spat, defeated.

“Eh!”

“Well it’s too late, now, ain’t it Johnny? That shit’s coursing through your veins faster than you can say ‘some like it hot.’

“Eh?” He rebuffed, giving the guitarist a sideways glance; as he began to remove his leather boots. “That a new song?”

“No, it’s a film. Marilyn Mon— stop tryna change the subject, man. I’m upset with you, Nick can’t find out that you’re stoned at his bleedin’ _wedding,_ alright?!”

John nodded, not really buying it.

“You wait here, lemme change.”

John sprung up faster than… something damn fast. A hungry wolf on hind legs. “Lemme help you.”

“Ugh no, get your junkie arms away from me, alright?” Andy tossed his boxy red Honda/Toyota/Kansai jacket into John’s face, before slipping into the bathroom to change.

John just sat there, wondering how to tell Andy what he _really_ had been doing those last three hours, once he finally got into his suite.

“Okay,” Andy returned, all suited and booted in a silver number, sleek. “How’s it look? Nick whines constantly about my fringe getting in my face so tonight, I ain’t fightin’ - it’s all pulled back.”

“ _Dayum!_ ” John cackled, eyes running shamelessly all over Andy’s form. “Hot. If you weren’t married, I’d jump ya.”

With a cackle, “‘course you would, JT.” Then, voice dropping before him, “let’s get you outta ‘ere before you _use_ anythingelse.”

“Ands, wait.” John caught his arm, stopping the guitarist from leaving.

“What is it, John? We’ll be late—”

“—I wanna, fuck, I want you to know. Ahem, Ands.” John coaxed him back down to the bed, still clutching his forearm tight. “Ands I, I’ll admit I came up to get a hit but, once I finally got in… I _didn’t_ take it.”

Andy let out a sigh. “I want to say I believe ya, Johnny, but I—”

“— I’m gonna be a jittery fuck, I know, but please man. Help me, help me stay away from it. Don’t let me come back up to my room, searchin’ for it.”

John spoke with such fervour, such determination, words clear, that Andy almost could believe him. In a near sober state.

“Look. I was in me room for over two hours, man. I didn’t take anything when I ‘ad the chance.” He insisted, inwardly pleading for Andy to accept his words.

With a shrug, “I won’t believe it till I see it. Stay near me tonight, I’ll keep my eye on ya, John.” Andy tread gently, on John’s flaming ground.

“Oh thank you!” He threw himself at the guitarist, who stiffened before enveloping John in his arms. There were tears, he messed up more of his makeup. “Love you, Ands.”

“Love you too, Tigger.” It was pressed into John’s mussed mullet, before he drew himself away. “You didn’t answer though, why you were crying?”

John let slip a small, wry smile.

“Ands, I was thinking. About uh, you know, when we first got together. When we met uh...” He trailed off, blushing.

“Met Simon? When I called him a fatso Elvis wannabe back at the Runner?”

With a snigger, John nodded.

“I was thinking about the really, _really_ early days and uh, how we’ve both changed since. I won’t get into it now, I know we’ve gotta go for the reception but, Christ. Ands,” he inhaled a shaky breath, eyes landing on the chandelier directly above them. “Andy, I know I’ve told you a million, trillion times but fuck - you’re still right.”

“Oh yeah I’m right, how so?” Andy giggled - _the little shit!_

“You bloody know exactly how!” John snorted, slapping Andy’s arm.

_My little shit._

“C’mon JT, I think it’d be safe to hear it one more time…”

“Ugh, shithead.” With a huff, then a beaming smile. “You’re _still_ right, you bastard. I still love him.”

The grin crept onto Andy’s face, John awaited the taunts and the blow. Instead, the guitarist wrapped a hand around his, helping John to standing.  
  


“I’ve loved him since day one before I even knew his bloody name and I’m still in love with him! No matter what comes our way, what tears us apart... bloody hell. I still love him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend has been incredible for me on the fic front. A new Hold Tight story of mine may jump the Big Thing queue: baby JoSi falling for eachother at the Rum Runner; I’ve never written so much that I’ve been so happy with over two days. The story is perfect, I can’t wait to share it as I’m almost at 18k! 🖤


	19. White Light Shining, You’re All Alone

Smiling, baring those wonky teeth John adored: “It’s damn nice to hear you say it again, Johnny. I know it’s tough to keep quiet at times for you both.”

Nodding, John didn’t want to get into that now.

“Ands, one more thing.” Now John grew terribly shy, a shyness that could perhaps rival his Nigel days way back when. “Promise I’ll make it quick.”

“Yeah?”

With a shaky inhale, a long exhale; John cleared every thought from his head to recite the five simple words that he had been crafting in his mind all afternoon. What would really change everything, should it all fall into place.

“Umm, I think…”

With a smile, “yeah, JT?”

“You have no idea how hard this is to say but uh, fuck!” He swept another tear, stomach churning and head swimming. “Ands, I…”

“Come on, out with it!”

Five. Simple. Words.

John tried again, finding his voice. This time, he got there. “I wanna… y’know.”

Five. Simple. Words.

“I wanna have Simon’s baby.”

Andy’s jaw dropped open so fast, John couldn’t help but smile at the flustered guitarist before him. There was no time to react and dwell on that now, they had to go.

“You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

“If it’s any consolation JT,” Andy began, thoroughly gobsmacked, “remember that lil breakdown you ‘ad at my place like just _last night?!”_

John giggled, “yeah I do.”

Then with a knowing smile, “I got that John. Way before you did.” He winked. “Let’s get you your man back.”

John beamed.

“I wanna be sober tonight, sober _enough_ … in case, you know, somethin’ happens.”

_I’ve got to remember this night._

Andy stopped, with the key in the lock. “You really think something might happen? You really gonna make that kid tonight, eh? What about your heat tablets and shit?”

“No! Not tonight, not _tha-at!”_ John replied, cheeks heating.

“Surely you need to withdraw from ‘em and stuff first, don’t you?”

With a roll of his eyes, “you know they aren’t one hundred percent effective every month, right?” By God, did he sound like a grown up.

Laughing, “and you _do_ know that now? Wow, I’m gobsmaked!”

_Charming!_

“Yeah asshole. I watch what cock goes in meself. Wait, that came out really wrong?!” _Which vibrators, too._ Together the two Taylors were laughing hysterically, a welcome shift in the mood. Then, forcing down the last chuckle John refocused. Swallowing audibly, he gathered his thoughts. “Don’t tell anyone okay, it may not happen at all but uh, woahhh. With Simon, with the band, who knows?”

Blushing, swiping the last of the tears in his eyes; John nodded for them to go. Full of hope, that something, anything, that Simon might just do something to tell him: _I still love you, you moron._

“Oh and!” John leant in, whispering sweet nothings into Andy’s ear. As expected he revealed himself and Andy pulled back with an ‘ewwww, is that some shit Janine left ya?’ and John cackled ‘oh grow up, it’s mine!’

“How can he resist me like _that_?” John waggled his brows, smirking. “C’mon now.”

  
“Another reason to head back to the room, huh?”

  
“You know it, man.” John winked, ever so cheeky.

With a roll of those light eyes, a teasing tone, “beats me Johnny, beats me. Have fun makin’ that kid.”

“Sod off!”  
  


Andy finally unlocked the door, together they headed back down to the raving pink wedding party, keeping close. John behaved, John partied with half a watered down drink in his system and Andy, goddamnit, Andy was _proud_ of him.

  
John was proud of himself too, surely. Though he didn’t want to jump the gun.

John gravitated back and forth to the guitarist, opting to sit with him as neither John or Andy had taken up the offer to bring a plus one. Though in John’s head, _he_ was the plus one to the front man. Together they sought out Simon too, inviting him to sit. Inviting him to eat with them, John by his side – keeping himself to himself.

They smiled, they made small talk. John’s heart felt light.

_Keep it civil, eyes and teeth._

Then Simon left and John didn’t follow. With a small but reassuring hand on his shoulder; Andy told him that he would talk to their front man for John and demanded that John didn’t drink whilst he was gone. He trusted John, John had no reason to break his trust. And he didn’t, instead he busied himself making small talk with Nick’s mother Sylvia, then finally he managed to snag a couple photos with the happy couple themselves.

Though it hurt when Andy and Simon didn’t return for a long time, John kept the faith.

Until he saw Andy again, looking slightly downtrodden. He pointed in the general direction of the tables, the dance floor was pretty packed and not many souls were avoiding it. When John located the blonde mane, now shirtless and delectably tan under that boxy black jacket; he could’ve screamed.

_A single random meeting, with your eyes and I am beaten._

Simon caught him staring, gaze blank.

“What in bleedin… what?!”

_And now I’m going nowhere._

“I know Johnny, I know. I’m sorry man, I really—”

_You know I’m going nowhere._

“—The fuck is that?! Andy, who the shit is that woman?”

_In a girl panic._

He could’ve drank away the sorrows, he could’ve snorted away the pain. But he didn’t.

_That’s driving naked, through my mind._

“I dunno John.”

“She looks so… so familiar too… holy fuck!”

_It’s a crush panic._

“What is it?”

“Naples, the chick. She was, you know, she was in Naples.”

_He’s got me atomised._

He only watched Simon and his mystery woman, a tall brunette in a short and sparkly black dress, manoeuvre themselves onto the dance floor; a tear brimming in his eye.

_You know, you know I want you._

“She was? Are you sure, John, he didn’t just meet her here and offer her a dance?”

_I know, you know I want you._

John stalled, losing Simon in the crowd.

_Like a hypnotic and I am mesmerised._

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Yeah I think so. Andy, what am I gonna do?”

“There’s nothing you can do, is there? Maybe find Rog, find out who she is.”

_I am mesmerised._

John sprinted, leaving the guitarist there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. We all know that I keep the songs and references to purely what was out at the time. But I couldn’t let _Girl Panic! _pass by here. After all, the video was filmed at The Savoy, where Nick’s wedding took place many moons before...__


	20. Someone’s Kid Just Lives For Today

Turns out Roger did recognise her but she wasn’t a close friend, he had been rather preoccupied with his bride that day back in Italy to learn her name. She had been at his yacht reception, hanging off of Simon’s tan arm then too. Neither Taylor, Andy had rejoined them, recognised her now. John whined in frustration, kicking a chair, before the three of them headed out for a fag and a breather.

“You should just talk to him, Johnny. The night’s not over.”

Panicking, he fumbled with the cigarette. “Yeah but what ‘appens when I open the room door and they’re shaggin’ right stop of the bed _I_ was in this morning?!” He screeched, almost decking Roger to his left in the process.

“Were you two shagging this morning?”

John shot Andy a dark glare, that answered his question.

Getting antsy, scratching up his already irritated forearms from earlier that afternoon, John blurted: “Fuck, Imma get hammered.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Both Roger and Andy kept him there, yanking dolly back by the hair.

“Fuckssake. Okay.” He panted, before taking a long pull.

“John, just talk to him. I’ll go find Gio, see if she remembers who the woman is. Try to calm down, please.” Roger had a hand on his shoulder, John watched him break away and disappear back inside.

Standing before Andy, he took a final drag before crushing the cigarette with his suede boot.

“You know John, it might just be nothing. Didn’t you and Simon have a pact or some shit, ‘bout posing with women in the spotlight to hide what you both have goin’ on?”

John’s head jolted up so fast, he could’ve sworn he heard a crack. “Yes. Yes!” He screeched, a new hope trying to break free. “That’s it, that’s what he’s doing! Usin’ her like he did at Rog’s weddin’, we weren’t together till the yacht!”

He sounded hopeful, though the heavy look on Andy’s face was bringing John down from his newfound high.

“You think it’s far fetched, don’t ya?” He couldn’t hide the disappointment in his tone.

Andy shook his head, before smoothing down the runaway strands. “I dunno. It’s been years now, I didn’t think that whole _ruse_ still worked. That you didn’t get jealous of his models anymore and he with yours?”

“You know what, Ands?” He leaned down, muttering in his ear. “I thought so too. But this night has just proven, I’m still a lovesick _freak_ who can’t share the bastard.”

Groaning, kicking another chair, John realised they weren’t as alone as they thought.

“Let’s move, I don’t wanna ‘ave his conversation in front of the flamingo.” He pointed to the pink thing, waddling about his feet. “He’s, y’know, judging me.”

“Pink faggot.” With a laugh, anything to lighten the toxic mood, Andy agreed. The bathroom, that had to do, that was an escape.

“Do you mean the bird or Nick?”

Andy didn’t answer.  
  


***  
  


“You should go after him.”

“What?”

“I said—”

“— N-no, I heard what you said. I just think it’s madness.”

Roger and Giovanna joined them, Andy having snatched them on their way to the gents.

“Do you know, Gio, who we’re dealin’ with?

She nodded her head, in sorrow.

“I’m so sorry John.” She lurched forward, wrapping her hands around John’s neck. He kissed her cheek, a silent _thank you anyways,_ before letting Roger have his wife back.

Roger tucked Giovanna under her arm, she was somewhat shameless about being stood next to the urinals it seemed. John had always admired her for that sort of thing, holding her own against the men.

“John,” she held out an anything but dainty hand, “I want to help anyway that I can.”

Roger agreed with the Mrs, with a solemn nod.

“You do?” Though his gaze was bleary, though his lip was trembling; Giovanna’s soft grip help to stabilise him. Help to bring him back down to Planet Earth.

“Of course.” Her voice was light. “You did so much for _Rugerro_ and I,” – _I love when she calls him that, rolling her ‘r’s’_ – “when we were getting together.”

John forced a smile, trying not to get too lost down memory lane. Down Broad Street, accidentally playing matchmaker back in the _Rum Runner_. The image was still vivid: the day he accidentally ran into and knocked the new cloakroom girl to the floor, then she asked after a certain drummer to his surprise…

_Remember me when writin’ your wedding vows,_ he had said.

_What?!_ Giovanna had freaked.

_And look where it got the two of them…_

“John.” Roger spoke this time, shaking him from his daze. “Gio’s right. What can we do to help you, now?”

It took little no persuading. Once John set his mind to something, once talking it out a little and not taking ‘no, you twit’ for an answer: he had decided. Face like thunder, blood boiling, heart in his throat: he had decided.

“I’m gonna go after him.” He blurted.

“Yeah you are, Johnny!”

“Go get him, Tigger.”

There was a reaction at his back. John didn’t care to decipher it, he was already headed out the bathroom, leaving his Taylor clan behind. A very determined front man in his sights.


	21. Sure Eyes Awake Before The Dancing Is Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to break some hearts...

John was winded, thoroughly exhausted after searching high and low for the front man, though he never gave up. He didn’t let the images of him shoving his tongue down that bimbo’s throat, him shoving her up against the wall to rip off her dress right then and there; get to John.

He was sweating, peeling open the final button of his shirt, swiping at his forehead. He stopped dead in his tracks, panting heavily.

“Hey.” It was hesitant.

John took a seat without asking.

“What’s wrong? You look awful.” The tone was distant, eyes roaming all over John and John was sure that gaze was staring straight through him.

John put a hand on his knee, breathing heavily. Waiting for it to be slapped away.

“I… fuckin’ hell, I…” he panted, now clutching at that thigh.

Now wasn’t the time to fight. What’s the use in fighting?

“Where’s, y’know, ya lady friend?”

Then, John’s gaze broadened stupidly: Simon was smiling. A full, genuine beam. John could’ve slapped him.

“So _that’s_ why you’re here, wantin’ to meet my soon to be fiancé huh? Meet Claire again, huh?”

_Claire?_

John kept quiet.

_Fiancé?_

Simon leant in, placing a hand atop of John’s on his own thigh.

Though the world could see, though the world could be watching and snapping photographs: John fell in line, lips greedily parting as Simon cradled them in his own. The kiss was short, breath taking; John pulled away even more winded then before; blushing bright.

“No need to be _Lonely In Your Nightmare,_ Johnny. I’m just doing what you told me to do.” They retreated, setting the space between them both again. “Though of course, you were too _stoned_ to remember what’cha said after Naples, weren’t you?”

John gulped, audibly.

_You’re gonna get married now?_

“Do you remember, Johnny?”

_You’ve moved on that quick?_

John shook his head, overgrown fringe dropping into his eyes.

“You asked me to pose with another woman as we’ve done for years. You were really pissed that Janine wasn’t having any more of your little game…”

Simon drowned on, sounding forcibly cocky and confident for the bassist’s sake: thinking that his front man was really okay. John found himself hooked. John found himself holding his hand, hiding it under the dinner table: scooting in even closer. And closer. Till he could rest his head on Simon’s shoulder, ever so close to kissing his cheek.

“Claire understands, Johnny. She’s truly a remarkable woman and, Christ, I really could see a future with her someday. But...”

“But?” John parroted, piping up for the first time. “You want to propose. You can… you know, you can _have_ that future.”

_How do I get over you that quick?_

“Why should I stay in your way, eh? I know it’s what you want, Simon.”

He withdrew his hand, John sat back in his chair. They locked gazes, heated blue on a tearful brown as Simon’s lips parted and John’s eyes slipped shut. Shutting the world out, needing to listen and remember how to breathe.

“I did propose a proposal John. She’s happy; I’m happy. The way you wanted me to be, right? We’re moving forward.”

A pregnant pause.

“But what?” He blurted again, desperate. _Do you have a ring, then?_

“But… she’s not you, John.” There was a snigger, John couldn’t tell if it was in bad taste. “I don’t know if I can… oh God. John, I don’t know if I—”

Daring, John stepped on his toes. “—Can go through with it.”

With a heavy heart, “she’s just not you, my Johnny.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the slightly, if anything, nostalgic nickname. “You know, Simon.” He peeled open his gaze, landing on those beautiful blues blown wide. “You ‘avent called me ‘my Johnny’ in yonks… didn’t know I’d been _missing_ it.”

_Where can I find you? Now I want to join in your game?_

John didn’t need to hear any more. What’s the use in fighting?

_I hear you calling._

“You asked for distance John, now I’m granting you and your drugs it.”

_But you just kissed me –_ he almost fought back.

“It’ll sort itself out John, okay?”

With a deep breath, he rose to standing; gazing down heavily at the tan and slightly sweaty man before him. “I’m done. I’m going to bed. We’ll talk about Claire some other time, surely she’s a, you know, remarkable woman: gettin’ you to tie yaself down.” Then, after a beat. “You don’t have to follow, Simon.”

_I hear you calling, calling, calling._

He began to change course, before stopping himself.

“Tell me now, if I should get a room. Go find her, spend the night in our- _your_ suite.” He corrected himself, though it hurt. “Thanks for sharing it last night, shit’s expensive as hell round Chelsea.”

Simon rose to his feet, taking two strides to stand beside him. “Claire’s gone for the night. If you want a room, you keep ours. Let me arrange another, see if Andy’s still here and needs a place to crash, okay?”

  
_How is he so sure she’s gone? Do you believe him?_

And with that, wiping away the water from his face; John took one final look at no stranger. Watching as Simon slipped from his sight, wondering if he should chase him one more time. Trade in his shelter for Simon’s danger, one final time. The night was far from over. The wedding reception might almost be but that didn’t mean John’s night had to end with him pitifully alone, again.

He has a new plan.  
  


***  
  


That new plan definitely did not involve running into his front man again, for a smoke atop a deserted balcony around the back of the hotel.

Engulfing a huge breath, John fumbled with his lighter; cursing himself as it wouldn’t flicker and he couldn’t light the cigarette. Then, like old times, Simon was right there and leaning in with his own lighter – his own cigarette now pulsing between John’s lips.

Simon was humming something, John was sure.

“New lyrics?” He breathed, aiming his smoke away.

Staring aimlessly at the midnight sky, Central London still buzzing beneath them; John found himself clutching tight to the railing as he was doused in silver moonlight, shivering slightly. A hand on his shoulder, passing him the cigarette back.

A breath, John’s eyes slipped shut involuntarily. He gripped the balcony harder, wondering if he might just fall.

“Whispering a love song in my ear.” Three steps traversed behind him. “How can you, John, touch me?” The vocal dropped, a hand reaching up to grab his waist. “When you’re not really there?”

With a groan, John found himself pressing back into the body; its warmth and broad stance. Needing protection, anything, needing to be held. He pushed himself away, no guard to let down, clutching tighter to the balcony’s edge. A melody crossed his mind, his own vocal straining.

“Let’s keep the fire alight. Loneliness is gone, did it take us, Charlie, did it take us so long?”

He didn’t dare to look at him, yanking the cigarette back. After another drag, he breathed heavily; words near breathless as they rolled off of John’s tongue.

“And all the love we excite. Passion has to grow—” _darling_ “because we know.”

The tone behind was taught, lost in another shaky sigh. “That’s beautiful, who did you write that… uh.”

“With? Or for?” John shot back, never taking his eyes off of the full moon above.

“Both.”

John gulped, wondering where to start. “It’s a little somethin’ me and Andy came up with. A tune, whatever. The lyrics, Simon, they’re by…” his hands felt clammy, the first bout of band infidelity was set to show. “Robert Palmer, believe it or not.”

Now, John chanced a look back. What he saw in Simon’s face he couldn’t decode; a strange blankness. He turned back to the moon, realising that Simon’s eyes still flowed with a heavenly sapphire, twinkling as the silver light struck them.

Simon was right behind him, a hand daring to touch John’s shoulder. He didn’t pull back, John didn’t push him away.

“And yours? Those lyrics, Simon?”

A pause. The second bout of band infidelity was a dust cloud on the rise, little did they know it.

“Something with Nick, I’ve been tinkering around with some lyrics during the weddings and feelings at their height; not sure what this one’s about though. I’m missing something.”

“A title?” John loved to come up with titles, it’s the accompanying lyrics he struggled with. “Why not _Missing?_ Maybe then, y’know, you’ll find what you’re after.” Another huff, John stubbed the shared cigarette out. “I hear you calling. I hear you, Simon, calling calling calling.”

His grip on the front man broke again; he decidedly slipped himself free.

“They fit.” Simon was hesitant, John answered before he could ask.  
  


“Came to me earlier, back when we were chattin’ inside. Don’t ask, I don’t know what they mean.”

“I’ll keep note.”

John shook himself free again, shoulder still tingling from Simon’s touch. Waist now aching, from Simon’s press.

“Again, I’m going to bed.” _I don’t wanna wake up alone, I’ll have to find somebody._ “You don’t have to follow.” He parroted their earlier words, before stumbling out, making his way towards the open door.

A final shaky glance was thrown Simon’s way. Simon, who was now backed by the moonlight: gaze heavily on John’s ever growing fuzzy silhouette.

“You know where I’ll be. I’ll see you… yeah.” Was the last thing John could remember saying, stalking through the reception hall as the last tables and chairs were stacked aside; the last of the pink bows and flowers were being shifted.

John waited right until the banquet suite had to close. Lights switching off all around him, finally a waiter was at his side; ushering him out and back to the bedroom.

He didn’t see Simon again that night. Or maybe he did. Maybe Simon did follow him. Maybe they would be spending the night together in neighbouring rooms, maybe they’d be sharing one room.

_He’s getting engaged. He’s really going to do it. Does it even matter what I feel now?_

John didn’t know, he was too numb to care.

He also had no idea how he could’ve forgotten. They’d been together for months, posing together, at all sorts of press junkets and photo shoots. Was he really that blind with his contacts in? Even now? No, John really thought hard.

He had been pushing thoughts of Simon’s other lovers out of his head for years. He’d completely ignored Claire, Simon had never really bought her any closer to the band which was why they didn’t know who his mystery love was.

Or maybe they did but kept quiet for John’s sake. He doesn’t need protecting from her, does he?


	22. The Front Of Your Dress, All Shadowy Lined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting near two months to share these scenes with you all. They really are quite something.

Falling through the hotel room door, John’s legs were wrapped right around the body; in his arms, lips locked and fighting for breath. The kiss was manic, his whole body was in a frenzy as those gorgeous hands cupped his ass and ground into him; John’s moaning sending their pulses rising in how naughty, how taboo, how wild their night was to be.

Wrapped around him, John kicked out to slam the door shut. It magically locked and sealed them in. His shirt was unbuttoned in haste, rumpled blazer tossed aside. John was thrown onto his back, landing atop of the pristinely made king size with a small chuckle. A lighthearted moment, a breath, a beaming smile and lust in those eyes. Shuffling up, resting himself on his forearms; John’s heavy gaze roamed that of the man, who was panting harshly, seeing the fire in his face and crooking a cheeky finger forward.

There was a lusty growl, another chuckle. And then they were wrestling, clothes being shed and moans were dropped. John’s hands shot themselves upwards, body keening as the muted hush of the fabric told him he was almost bare. Bare save for the white satin adorning his frame, the baby doll was a little short; lace edges baring little to the imagination.

A harsh groan, the figure backed off to view John in all his slutty glory. John cocked a brow, pouting, crawling about on the bed to pose. To spread his legs, to shove a hand down to palm himself; a ready strain showing in the light material.

Another harsh groan dropped before him, John giggled in triumph as though he had earned it. He had earned it.

The fabric was soft, silken, a luxury that he prided himself in owning. John couldn’t care less as to what his partners made of him wearing what he wore, he would shine in what he wanted too. In surprise, in taboo, he would shock and appeal. He would shock and seduce.

Grinding his head back into the pillows: his back arched beautifully, a delectable curve as those huge hands traced his form, lighting fires in their wake. The deep V neck, coated in a rich lace ruffle, was traced by hot fingertips; running themselves down to John’s darkened nipples, that could be seen wonderfully through the light fabric. Standing stark and proud. Being massaged lightly, with a whimper from the bassist, barely stifling his whines by biting his tongue.  
  


Those hands were running up his bare arms, removing his watch and placing it aside. Those hands were running down the white baby doll, massaging John, teasing John, with light and warm touches. Those hands paved way for the fabric, peeling it upwards, long legs already on show. John was wearing a favourite pair of silken stockings, with tiny red bows on the side; sheer fabric encasing his legs, striped panels to make them appear even longer and more magnificent than what they already were.

Giggling, “you like whatcha see?” He teased.

They answered in haste, already shirtless, throwing their trousers right into John’s face who chuckled harder. Then moaned, that strong musk hitting him. The masculine aura had John dizzy, delirious in the pleasure to come.

“Yeah John, you know I fuckin’ do.”

John didn’t have time to react, his eyes were wide, falling to that little strip of black material still coating what John was after. His prize, standing tall and proud, covered in rich black lace. A thong, John could tell.

The body attacked him, rolling him so John was on his front. Yanking him by the mullet, John yelped; fingertips clutching tight to the bedsheets.

“What do you want, John?” The voice was dark, dark and strained.

He groaned in response, thrusting his member up against the sheets; using this one advantage.

“You, _fuck!_ ” He whined, wishing he could see him, could kiss and touch him.

“What do you want from _me_ , John?” They boomed, John convulsed bodily under that dominating hand.

His mind rushed a mile a minute.

That hand, that had swept itself under the baby doll. Running itself over the cleft of his ass, palming at the flimsy material.

“I w-want, _gah!_ ” He screeched as his ass was swatted, shivering in the feeling. “Mmm…mother _fucker_.”

Another swat, another keen.

“John?”

“S-slow… m-make it _last_.”

Those hands were immediately withdrawn, choosing to run themselves over the slightly pinkish skin of John’s butt; massaging it.

“Please, _please_.”

John turned himself around, lips parted and panting slightly; eyes taking over that six foot of lean and tanned muscle, mouth watering. Those baby blues had zeroed in on him, were wide and coated in something deeper than lust; a raging fire that John helped to spark.

Another breath and they were atop of John, straddling him, glorious blonde hair falling into that face, almost gloriously fully nude. John was pushed deeper into the pillows, wrapping his long, stocking clad legs around that strong back; pushing his huge frame up against him, not letting any air separate their rutting bodies.

“Fuck, Si—” John cut himself off with a whine. “I’ve _missed_ you,” he panted, “ _Simon_.”

John’s hands were around his stomach, running up his sides for anything. Any grip, any reminder that Simon was there and wouldn’t leave him.

His feet brushed maddeningly up against the thin black fabric Simon wore, a lacy thong highlighting the muscles of those thighs; the strain in which John had to work with.

“I’ve missed you too, Johnny,” his voice was gruff, pained.

“You wore ‘em. For me.” John panted.

A face splitting smile, another kiss. “That I did, Johnny.”

He couldn’t help but laugh again, knowing Simon had had the same idea. Wearing a little piece of the lingerie John loved, surprising him, teasing him, making him quiver with lust at the mere sight of Simon in next to nothing, raging erection brushing his cut hip.

“You look incredible, the suspenders,” Simon’s fingertips were running hot up them, “fuck me.”

John could only whine in response.


	23. And Watching Lovers Part, I Feel You Smiling

Tossing his head back he groaned in elation, sending his own hands up to the headboard to clasp themselves around it. Baring his tender underarms, John lay even more vulnerable and open, quivering for any contact; to know that Simon was here and that John himself wouldn’t _be running anywhere before morning_.

Simon’s touches were slowly driving him into madness. His talented tongue ran up the insides of John’s thighs, his finger tips massaged them, as all John could do was hold on and buck upwards; desperate for more friction. If he had been worrying before, at least now John could relax knowing the state he was in, stark white thong giving the game away. He ached for more, for anything and everything, drooling over the thought of what was to come. And who.

Simon slowly eased the thong down, taking his time peeling away the elastic band as John fought with himself to not kick out beneath him. John watched, eyes heavily lidded, as his underwear was tossed aside; tossed far aside.

Dawn was breaking, seeping in slowly to cast the room in a golden sheen; illuminating both sweaty bodies rutting atop of rumpled sheets. John was groaning, nails now raking down Simon’s sides as he felt the heat surging in his stomach, raging through him faster than light. Simon was agonisingly close to him, his thong was wet and straining, brushing against John’s hip, the mere thought of those little puffs of air as his front man breathed was enough to drive him into insanity.

He couldn’t help it, he bucked upwards, juices trickling down his member and causing him to shudder. With a throaty whine, a hiss and a groan; yanking the baby doll up, John was finally, _finally_ bared to air.

“Beautiful, as always.”

The chuckle around him saw him flush, John mouthing _thank you_ as his eyes rolled back in numbing pleasure. He was taken, engulfed, trembling desperately as the hot pad of tongue slowly sucked. Staggering his breaths, shaking endlessly, John fought with himself to slow down, shooting his hands back up to the bedpost: determined to keep them there.

Simon’s tongue was working wonders, he knew he couldn’t hold on. Though he craved more, shucking Simon from him with a lusty growl. Drawing away Simon’s eyes were wide, his lips glossy with John’s seed. Through his heavily lidded gaze, John caught the beautiful sight and didn’t even have to ask; Simon met his lips.

They shared saliva, the taste of John mingling onto both tongues, before his front man pulled away, grabbing the gear.

“ _Please_ Simon,” was all that he could utter, as digits were lovingly slipped within him, to rearrange his insides.

Groaning, full and throaty, John’s head lolled deeper into the pillows as together they found the rhythm; pumping John slowly as John thrusted onto Simon’s fingertips. John’s member was surging, another bead of pre-come trickling down to pool atop of his belly. He wanted to use it, to massage it back atop himself but no: hands up above his head. He needed to drag the moment out as long as he could, savour the maddening sensation that was being stretched by his lover, being filled by Simon.

“Ready?” Simon grunted, slipping his fingers free.

John tossed off his own baby doll, leaving the stockings and suspenders in place. With a giggle, he heard a harsh groan rip itself from the front man’s throat; at finally baring all.

John hissed at the loss of contact, for he was suddenly so empty. So alone. Though the tear of the foil and popping off of the lid did nothing to soothe him, he craved that precious contact.

“Ride me, Johnny,” the words stirred a new blaze within John. He obeyed.

Crawling onto all fours, John let Simon slip beneath him. Rolling the condom down on Simon, a tender moment of intimacy, John couldn’t help but linger; fondling Simon’s balls lightly. He groaned, the sound raw and delicious, drawing John down to nip and suck as his hands gave way for the latex. Before breaking away, he placed a small kiss to the top of Simon’s straining member. Chuckling softly, Simon was puzzled as John leant down over him again.

Stealing another precious kiss, stealing another precious breath.

Barely able to watch his lover part, John shimmied back up Simon’s body, to see him smiling. Straddling him, raising his hips up, John was guided back down to sheath him; inviting Simon in. Those strong palms took ahold of John’s hips, massaging his sides. John couldn’t move. He didn’t want too. He craved wallowing in the notion of feeling so full, knowing he would be so fulfilled in the moments to come.

With a sharp intake of breath, John’s right hand enrapt himself and the left caught Simon’s thigh. He tugged, panting softly, before releasing and raising his hips.

“I, luv, I’m _ready_.” It came out breathless.

Palms braced on Simon’s thighs, Simon’s hands around his waist; John was lifted upwards before plummeting back down. That first thrust, full of power and precision was enough to wipe every thought from his head. Enough to have him surging, whole body alight and trembling, as up he rose and down he went.

Together they were rocking, formulating a rhythm and score. John pulled when Simon pushed, always eager for more. Simon’s strokes were long and controlled, cut hips rolling upwards as John bobbed above him. With each thrust he let out a whine, digging his nails just that much deeper; surely drawing blood to the surface. John didn’t try to stifle those cries, knowing Simon loved to hear him.

Their pace began to increase, Simon changing his angle to thoroughly hit that spot. John cried out, tears brimming in his eyes, wallowing in sensation. He was so full, so stretched and _full_ , raging towards his peak.

“Sw-switch,” John grunted, as together they tumbled down so John could lay on his side.

Leg cocked, head thrown back, Simon swiftly entered him again and John grunted in pain. Their rhythm held such speed, Simon’s thrusts such an intensity that John knew he couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t hold back his rain much longer.

Whining, his hands flailed behind him to clutch at whatever he could of Simon. Shuddering, those gorgeous hands came to wrap around him, massaging John’s chest as his lips dusted his neck with hickeys. Each nip caused him to groan, each suck causing him to buck back harder onto Simon, now thoroughly wrecking his insides.

The familiar heat, stuttering strokes, screamed to John how close Simon was. They were drenched in sweat, moaning wildly, hunching over each other to steal desperate kisses and grasp tender flesh. Now jacking at himself with reckless abandon, neck bruised and blood pooling on his lips: saw John white out. Bucking desperately, destroying the sheets, his climax overtook him with such a force that there really was no rain to hold back. He artfully stroked himself through it, jittering all over as his skin was painted white. Drawing Simon ever closer to that peak, John’s insides clamped down on Simon harder, sending his beloved raging over the edge.

Muffling the cry in John’s sweaty shoulder, Simon filled him over and over, John gasping desperately through the violent aftershocks as they pulsed through his body. Together they were panting, drenched in sweat and semen, unable to part. Simon wouldn’t dare, John would never want to be abandoned so soon.

“I… I lo- _love_ you.”

Cheeks now stained with tears, his _cheeky cheeky_ _Nigel_ smile paved way for further elation and joy, shuddering breaths and shaky pants. Craning his neck up, John beckoned Simon over to him for another deep kiss, leaving them both thoroughly winded. A shiver overtook John, one that pulsed through both he and Simon, one that Simon helped to warm by clutching John’s middle tighter.

“I love you, I _love_ you,” John repeated, the mantra falling carefree off of his ruby stained lips.

It didn’t matter that Simon’s heavy pants made it hard for John to hear his words. Every instinct, touch and movement told him: _Goddamnit, I love your idiot ass, too._

With a grunt, Simon slipped himself free and immediately John trapped him with one leg. Rolling over saw them face to face, Simon’s puzzled expression telling John that he was ripping off the condom without being able to see; without being able to take his heated gaze off of John’s own.

“I’ll get a towel.”

Simon slipped out of the bed, the satin making a small shushing sound. It bounced off of the walls, the golden pillars, the chandeliers and wall hangings: that Simon had _left_.

Cleaning himself up first, John was tossed the towel with a small grin. Simon clambered back onto the bed.

Blushing impossibly deeper, creeping impossibly closer, John nuzzled a damp spot between where Simon’s neck met shoulder; content on finding his spot for the remainder of the night.

“You won’t… leave me now you’ve had fun, go and party more, will ya John?”

John perked up, searching for the sudden insecurity in those steely blues: “fuck no. I’m stayin’ right here.” He paused, voice no longer lacking the conviction. “That is, if you’d, y’know, _let_ me.”

Shimmying down the bed, though his arse hurt, John caught Simon there: a hand teasing his blonde locks and head resting atop of his beating heart.

With a groan; “I’ll let you stay, Johnny.”

Their heart rates were no where near resting yet, though with the stability of having Simon so close, having his musky scent so strong and radiant; helped to ease John into this intoxicating slumber.

He could rest easy for their remaining days together. John didn’t know how long that would be but he would cherish their time in London, holed away in _The Savoy._ See where they stood when their little getaway came to an end… as opposed to, saving it till the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the longest and most thorough, loving and heated sex scene I’ve ever written; in any fandom.
> 
> They deserve it, I’m very happy with how this turned out. Though I’ve been waiting over a month and a half to post this second half!!


	24. In The Haze Of The Afterglow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to get this fic moving, it’s best enough finished!

“Hi, John. Pleasure to meet you.”

John straightened up, sending a shaky glance Simon’s way. They hadn’t woken up together. Though there was a note, John stuffed it into his back pocket anything but mad.

_‘Missing’ huh? I’ll keep that title in mind. – S x_

Knowing Simon had to get back to her by morning, though the bassist was sure she knew something was amiss.

“John?” She tried again, a hand on his shoulder this time.

The note, which was burning an aching hole in his back pocket – his ass was on fire.

“Hey John, you remember Claire, right?” Simon dashed to her side, hand on her hip. Like he had with John the night before on the balcony.

“Oh uh,” _be cool._ “Yes, yes ma’am. It’s uh, you know uh, a _pleasure_ to meet you too.”

“Hey sweetie, why don’t you check in with Andy, then check _out_ with Andy.” Simon practically spun her around, she giggled at the usual flaky and over animated behaviour. Not before tossing her head back, out of Simon’s line of sight.

Claire simply mouthed: _I know_ John’s way. He swallowed whatever was left of his shattered pride though there was no malice in her stance. Simon didn’t see that, he didn’t need to try and decode what that meant.

Catching him in the now secluded hotel lobby corner, this time John was first to press Simon into the wall: kissing him hungrily, desperately, before peeling away and shoving the crumpled note back into the front man’s hand. With a wink, a little giggle; John pivoted around and headed for his abandoned luggage – sure to wiggle his ass a little as he strut, knowing Simon’s eyes were firmly on his behind.

“John! Come ‘ere.”

With a huff, he turned. “What?”

Simon cursed, before following him. “She knows about last night, alright. She knows and… fuck I’m going to sort it out.”

John knew he should be screaming, knew he could even hit him: he was too high on their post coital bliss to care.

“It’s your problem, _you_ sort it out.” He spat, knowing where he stood in this relationship now. “She knows, eh?”

Still intoxicated on the drug that was Simon, John somehow walked away. Somewhat thankful that this time Simon didn’t follow. The ball’s in the front man’s court now, they’d talked it though after the sex before John drifted off. The bassist had decided to let his front man choose.

What’s the use in fighting?

The cocky shit in him wanted to say _choose me; I’ve put up with you for four bloomin’ years, you arsehole_. Though he fought hard; the insecurities about commitment kept pouncing his way. If Simon chose Claire, John would bow out with grace and definitely not be attending that wedding. Chucking his heart in a blender, Simon could drink that smoothie.

If Simon chose him… well, John didn’t want to finish that thought.  
  
  


***

That night was his final in London for a little while. Not ever so long, enough for a quick shag with another quick and nameless face. Long enough for a couple bottles of Stolichnaya and a line. Whatever, he had been good before. Now, Simon still ragging on his mind; he was... goddamn. Could he really be feeling guilty?

Rolling over from having his face smushed into a somewhat hairy as hell chest, wishing he had that himself; he pulled away with a yelp. Somewhat disgusted to be still nude, poorly covering himself with his own navy sheets. He was first out the huge bed, falling straight to the floor; he was screaming for the man to _get the fuck out now, you fucking asshole,_ thankful that his rain was somewhat being held back. He shoved the bloke out the front door, clothes in hand whilst John stood stock still, shivering; poorly wrapped in his own bedsheet.

He didn’t even bother changing as he got a bag together. He said he would take the time out to recoup in Brum, he needed someone to stop him from his wild nights and stupid partying. Whilst Simon was making his life altering decision.

  
John didn’t need to give him any more ammunition to _not_ choose him - getting plastered and jacking off in some strangers mouth, was not what he needed. He hastily packed, though his old and tattered things belonging to Jo- _Nigel_ still lay limp in an old and tattered wardrobe. In the garage, now.

He kicked shut the door, steaming straight to his golden Aston Martin out front. Raging, tears in his eyes; John had the whole ride back north to wallow in how low he felt. Torturing himself endlessly over the best, most fulfilling sex of his life, a mere day ago; to what he had partaken in last night... absolutely awful.

John was appalled, he really was. He shoved every last thought out of his mind as he stood before his own damn front door, ignorant of the chants and cries of the Brummie fans awaiting his gracious return. Raising a shaking fist, he found it a chore to knock.


	25. Faith In This Colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does contain spoilers from my upcoming prequel: _Some New Romantic Elvis! ___

“What the bleedin’ fuck are you doing here?” A groggy, sleepy, half dead bassist opened the door; wincing at the sunlight.

He was stood before Simon, gaze firm. He was stood before Simon, who had a suitcase.

Following his eyes, “don’t worry, I won’t take up any space here. Just know I’ll be at the _Holiday Inn_ , not too far from here.”

“Oh, okay.” John nodded along. “Doin’ what?”

Simon only glared.

“I s’pose you, y’know, you wanna…” He motioned behind him, letting Simon cross the threshold. “You know I honestly didn’t think you’d remember this place.”

Though it felt odd on every level, John was first to lead Simon up the stairs. He didn’t stop to gape over the baby photos that decorated the stairway, nor the huge group shot of the five of them that now rest beside John’s room door. Nigel’s door.

“Come in.” He stammered, a shaky hand on the golden door knob.

Perhaps if they were in London he wouldn’t feel so bad. Simon could walk that place blindfolded – he had for other reasons – though here, in his childhood domain; John really felt out of sorts. He followed Simon’s silhouette as he roamed the small space, dropping his suitcase to the floor and slumping onto the bed. His gaze broadened as he bounced slightly.

“New mattress?”

“Got it in ’82, yeah. Springs were drivin’ me mad.”

Simon nodded. He really hadn’t been here in forever. “The tiny sofa?”

“On sale at _BHS_ , ’83.”

“The desk chair?”

“Now it spins.”

He pointed up to the stains on the ceiling. Ones that weren’t really stains but a noticeable difference in the colour of the walls – lighter, after years of having posters and pictures up. “Where did all your, you know, _paradise_ photos go? All those beaches, you longed to go? Rio?”

With a tight breath, “Rio’s gone. I’ve been to some of ‘em now. So the dreams, they’re gone.”

“Ah okay.” Simon nodded, clearly still uncomfortable. “Dreams?”

John mentally noted the changes in his childhood bedroom since Simon last visited. Though the walls didn’t really change colour, nor did the carpet as he didn’t want to abandon everything that screamed ‘started from the bottom’; even the newer lamp, bedside cabinet and bed frame itself seemed to bug Simon. Long gone were the days where John, practically still Nigel, would carefully tear the covers of _Smash Hits_ and stick his own band’s pin ups on his wall. Out of pride, respect and pride.

“I’m glad you kept the old record player though. It’s an antique, John.”

Now they lay bare. He didn’t spend many days here anymore. He couldn’t as a damn tax exile: his days were numbered in the United Kingdom enough already.

It appeared Simon had been talking, sounding ever so distant as John beckoned him to repeat himself.

“I’ll be here three days. I was wondering if you… oh I don’t know, wanted to…”

Stifling a grin, poorly. “Go out? On a date?”

Simon began chewing his bottom lip, nodding shamefully.

“What ‘bout the Mrs?” It hurt but it had to be said.

“I’m sortin’ it John. She’ll throw me out I’m sure.”

Not daring to take a step closer. “Have you, erm, decided on…” _me?_

“Who I want?” The breath was shaky. “I—”

“— You know I don’t usually wait to be anyone’s next, right?” John gulped, wondering where he was going with this.

“Of course I fuckin’ do.”

“Do us both a favour, Simon, let’s not talk about it whilst your ‘ere. I wanna _enjoy_ my week back home.”

About twenty years magically erased themselves from Simon’s face, the singer breathed a sigh of relief and finally relaxed his shoulders.

His will had been caving long before he had invited Simon up to his bedroom. They had so many memories here, so many arguments and tears; so many reconciliations and so many successes. So many _firsts_. Staying here was too stimulating for John, too many memories swirling carelessly about his tired mind.

He acted as though he hadn’t spent the bulk of the two days since leaving _The Savoy_ holed away in here, crying softly to himself as he fought for sleep. Losing sleep, not wanting to eat, distressing his poor mother even further without meaning too.

That’s not to say Jean didn’t get it. He’d confided in her one too many times, for the first and maybe only time. As John.

Without thinking, or too much thinking; John took those two strides forward. Now standing before Simon on his bed, towering over him, he noted that those fingertips running down his sides felt so foreign, yet they weren’t cold. It was as though they were trying to get reacquainted with one another, John bowing his head and lips stumbling over locking with Simon’s.

The kiss was slow, closed mouthed, and still Simon was stealing John’s breath away. They readily parted and John held out a hand, helping Simon to standing.

“Let’s go out tonight. There’s, you know, shit, there’s—”

“— Too many _Careless Memories,_ in your bedroom, aren’t there Johnny? I know. I know you’re uncomfortable.” Simon was now stood beside him, approaching the staircase. “But please John, no drinking.”

He paused, stammering for a moment. “Okay.” He breathed, oddly thankful that Simon had suggested it.

“Do you keep _any_ here?”

  
_Any... oh._

John shook his head, wincing.

“Good. No drugs, John. Not in my presence.”

Knowing full well that he didn’t need to have the front man hauling his wrecked arse back here, no need to make a fool of himself further: he agreed and then some.  
  


***  
  


Together John and Simon hunted high and low for the right cinema, the right films; until they came across a showing just near to the Kings Norton Green: a 007 double bill. John was elated, knowing that would really ease the mood. Things were getting easier. They both seemed happier being out, out of the way. No band stuff, no Claire or Janine, for that matter, stuff… John could live with that.

“It’s like they were expectin’ us.”

“Damn right, John. Is it _Thunderball?_ That’s the first one I saw when I was six!”

“No, that one’s next week.”

“Then we’ll have to come back next week.”

John flushed at those words, poorly hiding it behind his crunchy mullet. Apparently his luv really did want a second date, this first one was going damn well! With a knowing smirk, silently apologising for _again_ putting Simon through his favourite film franchise. John cautiously took his hand, treading gently on Simon’s ground and they headed inside the theatre – not caring as to who saw them.

Miraculously nobody followed them, nobody tailed them to their seats right at the back of the theatre. No screaming fan or wild child approached them so they kept themselves to themselves; breathlessly laughing as eager fingertips battled for popcorn – _buttered, Simon’s favourite_ \- and John’s _Coca-Cola_ can almost soaked them both after accidentally being shaken too much.

“Why’d you shake it in the first place, you tit?!” Simon joked, hunting for a napkin.

John didn’t drink. Alcohol, that means. He didn’t get high.

“I forgot alright! I ain’t had no _Coca-Cola_ for a while. Not after the whole, uh, sponsor incident back on the Sing Blue Silver tour.” He was giggling through his words. “You know, with _Pepsi_.”

“That’s because the fans now serve you _Pepsi_ and _Pepsi_ only, you sod.”

He didn’t drink, didn’t need a hit either.

He wanted nothing more than to cuddle at the back of the theatre; watching Sean Connery woo and win over his birds, kicking ass, with his Licence To Kill. John even managed a snog through the _Dr No_ end credits, then a jab at the music through _From Russia With Love._

Imagine what they could do if they got their claws on a Bond theme – that would be it. John would’ve achieved everything! A film soundtrack, _the_ goddamn film soundtrack. Simon’s snigger silently told him _hah! Yeah right!_ and John shut up about his newfound Bond/band fantasy. Holding his hand, he took to massaging Simon’s palm lightly.

Their night was perfect. Spontaneous, wild and perfect. Nothing could ruin it. No birds, no drugs or alcohol, _nothing_ could ruin it.

There was a strange warmth blossoming in John’s chest, a good few hours later, clambering up to the top deck of the final 45 bus round Brum that night. Neither man had felt the need for a fancy limousine or needed to spruce for a taxi. He chalked the feeling to his Taylor Telepathy acting up.

“Simon, you’ll think I’m crazy but.”

“It’s nothin’ new.”

“Oi! Watch it!” John bellowed.

Resting his head atop of Simon’s leather clad shoulder, John watched the solemn raindrops tumbling down the windows, snuggling the front man tight. They hadn’t done that in a while, atop an abandoned bus; four years to be precise.

“I’ve got this super strange feeling, you know? About Tracey.”

“Tracey? N-no Johnny, it’s Simon. Si-mon!” John cocked his head up, craning his neck to steal a quick kiss.

“I mean it, you git! I’m wond’rin’ if she’s, you know.”

“Oh.” Simon nodded, easing John up to seated.

“You never know, Andy did say it’s any day now.” John suddenly felt giddy, the promise Andy had made to him the other night at the wedding flashing through his mind.

_I want to have Simon’s baby… so keep your gob shut, Ands!_

“That he did. I suppose we’ll just have to wait, huh?”

“Eh? Yeah.” John’s voice was fond, soft, taking Simon’s hand into his own again. He studied the contours, the flowing veins. “Can ya believe that, God, one of us is really gon’ have, y’know; have a _baby?_ Any day now?”

“Any minute!” Simon chuckled softly. “I don’t think any of us can, my Johnny. We’ve all grown up massively.”

_My Johnny, there it is._

John’s heart skipped that same childish beat it had been skipping since he was twenty. Together they clambered off of the double decker and began the once so familiar trek down to his estate, lit solely by the street lamps as they were pelted by the rain. Like four years ago, they were _quietly_ \- it’s a little after 1AM - laughing, were kissing in the rain.

***  
  


“God, was it always this… small?”

“Yeah Johnny. It’s a complete different story inside, remember?”

John nodded.

There they both stood outside where it all really began. Gates locked, lights off; the _Rum Runner_ stood ghostly before them. A phantom of a memory, a blurry memory in many cases towards the end of their tenure; standing anything but proud before them.

Both glancing up, John lay a hand on Simon’s shoulder, as they both raked in every familiar and every new and dingy detail.

“Must’ve really gone _down_ since we left, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah.” John’s brows furrowed, there was something so off about being here. “The Berrows abandoned this joint, ain’t they?”

  
“Indeed.”

It was as though the club needed _saving_ , somehow. Neither man could put their finger on it.

“Hey Charlie? D’ya think this place could ever get one of them blue plaques? Because we started out here?”

Simon thought it over, gracing John with a small smile. John eagerly surveyed the scene, all around them, before placing a quick kiss atop of Simon’s nose. He pulled away with a giggle, hand shooting down to clasp his front man’s palm.

“Who knows? We have to be legends for that to happen, John. If not, we have enough memories here: this place will never forget us.”

“A careless memory, indeed.” He hummed. “But will _we_... forget it, here?”

Turning back to give the Runner a final fleeting glance, “I hope not, Johnny.”


	26. This Is Planet Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a personal favourite chapter of mine. I’ve had the bulk of JoAn written for a month or so now, this chapter kept getting pushed and pushed back!!

“You’re an _uncle_ , JT!”

“Fuck off!”

Word spread quickly through the Duran family. John was absolutely elated, tears in his eyes as he heard his guitarist stumble over his words, crying on the line as he delivered his news.

“Gor blimey! You’re jokin’! You know it means so much to me, Ands.”

Andy and Tracey had welcomed a beautiful baby boy.

“You know I won’t ever get to have nieces and nephews.”

_A kid of my own?_

“That I do, only child Nigel. So you can have _my_ son as _your_ nephew.”

John squealed, poorly hiding it.

“What’s his name?”

A hearty bout of laughter, through the tears, “ _Andrew_.”

Following in Andy’s father Ronnie’s footsteps: he passed down more than just the family surname. John couldn’t help but cackle as Andy revealed his son’s name: _Andrew_.

“Andy Jr?” John questioned, smiling like a loon.

“You know it, Uncle Tigger.”

“Uncle Tigger.” John parroted, with a small beam of pride. “Simon!”

The name was perfect, John was sure of that.

“Simon? He’s in Birmingham?!” There was a chuckle, “we’ve gone back to 1980 ain’t we? He gonna serenade ya with _The Chauffeur_ on acoustic again?” Then; he stopped laughing. “Are you, Johnny, keepin’ sommet from me?”

Ah; the memories.

John had butterflies, he couldn’t deny. “Noooooo….”

“John?”

“Okay!” He cackled, hugging the newest edition to _this_ Taylor family, Leonard tight as he was balancing the stuffed lion on his chest. “He’s just, you know uh, come round for uh…”

_Think of a good excuse! You’re great at doing that!_

“Are you both back together?”

_Goddamnit._

“Best not be makin’ any babies in that house, JT! What is it you said eh – there was no sex in ya house till ya were born?” Andy was howling, John only blushed brighter.

“What a quote that one was.” _Well played Just Seventeen magazine, well played._

  
  


John paused, biting his lip. He hunted for the front man, as much as he could by barely raising his head from the end of the sofa, before bringing his voice to a whisper.

“I don’t, I don’t know. There’s still the matter of uh, you know what, startin’ a family an’ all but uh; Ands, I think we’re in a good place now. Working out what we want, together, you know?” John’s voice gained intensity with each word. Undoubtedly, he was smiling.

Andy chuckled on his end of the line, John felt his already erratic heart do a somersault in his chest.

“I’ll talk to you ‘bout it some other time, you’ve got enough on ya plate with little Andrew now!” John cackled, thankful that Andy changed the conversation. “Oh wait, me is now aware of a certain lady spendin’ a night with a certain _midget_ guitar _freak_ the other week...”

_Now that was a story and a half. Wait and see._

There was a pause, a half chuckled: “yeeeeees, who told ya that?”

“Good god. It’s true! You saved my ass, with Claire?” He couldn’t believe his words.

“You know John, she’s right. Real smart girl, knowing to step outta the way before getting trapped in a relationship where her groom loves his best man more than his bride.”

“Best man? Fuck, I would’ve avoided that wedding like the plague.”

Another hearty laugh. “You know what I mean, Tigger! All I’ll say now is, you’re fucking _welcome_. Don’t cock it up again, not all birds Simon meets will be so understanding.”

“…You’re right.” _Fucking hell._ “Ands, he hasn’t chosen… _me_ yet.”

There was another cackle on the Northern end of the line. “You fuckin’ slow? Even she gets it. You’ve had him since you were nineteen, you moron. She gets it.”

John coughed, suddenly sweating like crazy. _Is another heat on the way?_

“John, _listen_ to me.”

He straightened up comically. When Andy used his actual (middle) name and no cute nickname: he knew the man meant business.

“He loves you. He’s already chosen you. Just you wait.”

John gulped down the lump in his throat, too shocked to fight it.

“I love you both too much to ‘ave to swat your ass again, for Charlie’s sake.” John barked out a chuckle.

“You’re… _always_ right, Andy. I’ll have to thank you properly when I see you. All of ya’s, Rog and Gio too.”

“Oh right, don’t worry ‘bout it now, Tigger!” His tone changed, John was again hooked. “Do us a favour, family keep comin’ and comin’, can you call the rest of the band and tell them for me and Trace, Johnny?”

John gasped. “You mean, Ands, you… you told _me_ about the baby first?”

Another happy little bellow of laughter, “that I sure did, man.”

_That you sure did, man, that you knew it was a boy months ago._

John choked out a small sob at that. He was truly honoured.

_You trusted me, I still can’t thank you enough._

“Took me long enough to hunt ya down too! Thought you’d be staying in London. I honestly didn’t think I still had your number for Brum, mate.”

“Simon, get your fat ass in here!” He screamed, phasing out a moment, before getting back to the guitarist. “Ands I _will_. I’m glad you still ‘ave this home telephone number. Then I’ll see you there, later tonight. What hospital and ward is Tracey in?”

John hung up with a warmth blossoming in his chest like no other. A baby. One of them really had themselves a _baby_. It was incredible.

Lying atop of his sofa, holding the phone to his chest; John let out a happy sigh, already mentally dialling Roger’s home phone number.

“Was that Ringo? I heard you screaming?”

“Oh God! Don’t scare me like that?!” John cackled as he was blanketed, Simon stretching out to cover him atop the worn in brown patterned sofa.

Sneaking a kiss, John groaned into it as two huge and soft hands cupped his face, drawing him in even closer; angling him to his front man’s liking.

“It’s _time_ ,” John pulled back with a giggle. “Tracey had a boy! I told you, I knew it!”

“Holy shit, that’s wonderful! Is he—”

“—Totally okay,” John babbled, “more than okay. Ten fingers, ten toes!”

There was a mutual excitement spreading between the two bandmates, Simon helped to ease John up to seated.

“Packed your bags, Charlie?”

“I plan on being here three days, you moron. Check.”

“Packed me _my_ bags?”

With a roll of light eyes. “Also, check.”

“Alright Charlie, get your ass in the car! We’ll take Jacko’s _Mercedes_.”

“Hold up, John.” Simon sniggered. “Your mother’s casserole is waiting for you, in the kitchen. Jean won’t be happy!”

John let out a little frustrated groan, stamping his foot. “Ugh, I wanna see the baby! I’ll deal with me mum later!”

With another chuckle, “you have your _whole life_ to see him. Come and eat, then we’ll go.”

“But—”

“—It’s a long drive, John! You need to eat!”

“But—”

Simon silenced him with a kiss.

“Ahem,” he coughed, “I’ll set the table.”

In his mind they were already speeding up north to go and visit the Wilson-Taylors _Three_ as it now were, John couldn’t hide the excitement nor would he let anyone put out his flame. With that little special something rattling for baby Andrew in the back seat of his father’s car guarded, not very well, by a sleepy Simon.


	27. Another Night Over Babe, Another Light Comes On In Vain

The week-long comedown from the ‘Simon being here’ high wasn’t harsh, it wasn’t brutal. There were tears in his eyes as he rolled over onto his back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling with the phone cord wrapped around his clammy fingers. Trying to focus on the watermarks and fades, from where his posters of faraway lands had once been. Ones that now he had been too, would continue to travel too.

Simon had already spoken to Claire; breaking off the engagement (or engaged to be engagement - whatever) just like _that_. John couldn’t believe Simon’s words, telling him, re-assuring him that Claire was okay. Their conversation was mutual though at first she had fought. Simon recited the screaming and the crying over the phone, John taking in every painful word he uttered. He stated that Claire wanted him to follow his heart knowing that it wasn’t where hers ought to be.

“Smart woman. _Remarkable.”_

“Yeah she is Johnny.”

As Simon told John, own heart in a vice, miraculously she was happy for them. For _them_. Whatever it was that the bassist and the singer shared, she didn’t pry.

“And why’s that, huh?”

A shaky sigh, John gulped. “She taught me, that I can’t keep away from ya. No matter how much you push me away. I’ll always come back to you.” Then Simon laughed, needing to break the tension. “Like a fricking lethal _frisbee_ you are, Taylor.”

Simon even passed the phone over to Claire, still in his London place, so John could hear her directly.

Telling him: “its _over_ and Simon’s _yours_. He’s never not been yours, John. Don’t let him go again.”

“Fuck, I won’t! But uh, Claire.”

She was ready to pass the phone back. “Yes, John?”

He struggled with finding his words. “You, you uh, you’re really just going to… you know, let me win?”

“Win? You’ve had Charlie’s heart from day one, haven’t you?”

_I have?_

“You have plenty more to lose than me.” Her voice was gruff, John wasn’t sure if she was choking off a cry. “Besides, I spent the night sharing a suite with Andy. He, Roger and Roger’s wife filled me in. Believe me John, I don’t wanna be in the middle of all that – keeping you two apart. And whatever woman you have; tell her to bugger off. You better not hurt him again.”

_I have. Andy said so._

He listened to her firm warning, attention fully on her.

“Give Charlie what he wants or—” she broke off with a giggle, he let out the breath he hadn’t known to be holding: she’s okay. “I might just have to steal him back from you!”

“Hey!”

“Hey yourself, bass man. You owe me! Don’t mess this up again.”

He really couldn’t believe his luck. Bidding her farewell with some backhand comment about her meeting Mr Right soon, that was sure to be the last he heard from the American. Then she passed the phone back before John could really gather his thoughts, Simon seemingly couldn’t go another minute without seeing or hearing from the bassist.

When he hung up, John cried and cried into the sheets; having stuffed all his six foot, one inch of no longer so lanky self into his old childhood bed; feet dangling far off of the edge. Completely aware of his luck, wondering how the universe was giving him another chance to put things right.

His beloved cuddly toy, Leonard The Lion, hugged him too – he couldn’t leave either home without his best road trip pal. And then, his mother Jean was beside him, he hugged her tight, stupidly tight, babbling endlessly about Simon as he came undone atop of her muted floral apron.

He had to get back to London, work was calling. Simon was calling.

***  
  


Sighing happily as his hair painted the muscled, tan chest he rested on; John found himself staring up at the ceiling with a half lidded gaze. The sheets were riding low on his hips, his legs were intertwined with another lengthy tan pair. He couldn’t help but grin to himself; knowing exactly that heading straight to London but stopping first in Pinner was precisely the way to go. Now he lay there, grinning, feeling ever so comforted and alive.

For the first time in weeks he was beginning to feel like himself again, like the could breathe again. Like the wolf inside of him was hungry again and those bright, chocolate brown eyes really did sing _Like An Angel._ He felt at home, John knew he had to ride out this wave; hoping this moment of madness had surely passed.

Simon was muttering sweet nothings in his ear, fingertips tangling in John’s finally washed auburn strands.   
  


  
John shot upright, with a squeak. “You’re gonna buy a _what?!_ ”

He was met by merry laughter, hands tugging him back down to rest against Simon’s nape. “A _boat_ , Johnny. Like I always dreamed.”

Still antsy, “don’t you think ya should tell me first?! That’s... That’s a, fuckin’ hell Charlie; that’s a big commitment! It’s a whole lotta dosh to throw away on a—”

“— _Commitment_ , huh?” John stopped, panting harshly. 

“Yeah.” He whined. He thought about it, knowing that this purchase was bound to have come eventually. They were all millionaires, or there abouts, anyways. “Oh god! I’m gonna ‘ave to compete for your affection an’ time now, don’t I?”

“You what?” Simon giggled, staring intently into those infuriatingly gorgeous brown puppy dog eyes and pouty bottom lip.

“Yeah, bastard! You’ll be spendin’ all that time at _sea_... without me.” John groaned, though it was all in good nature. “I know where I ain’t wanted, you prick!”

John yelped slightly as Simon simply yanked his dolly back down by the hair; tickling him, rolling him over and topping him. Little laughs graduated into bellows then cackles, John kicking out and demanding Simon stop.

“Motherfucker... I’ll, I-I’ll be left on shore to take care of... of, stop _tickling_ me!” Needless to say the front man did no such thing. “I’ll be made... m-made fuck off!” John slapped his cheek. “Christ, I’ll be, you know, made to look after the house an’ raise the bloody kid alone!”

The tickling ended, abruptly.

John froze.

“You... you _what_ , John?” Simon hastily retreated, eyes blown wide.

John stuttered.

“John, what did you just say?”

John grinned, sheepish.

“Nigel!”

“Bollocks.” He scrambled up to the headboard, knocking his head back multiple times till it hurt. Being sure to punctuate each hit with an internal _stupid, stupid, stupid!_

  
  


“John, you said _kid_. You said _house_.”

John gulped audibly, following those steely blues as they came to rest on his stomach.

“No, n-no! _No!_ I’m not... I can’t, remember? Not till those tablets are, you know, stopped.”

_  
They aren't always one hundred percent effective, Charlie knows that. I really should slow down._

“Thank God.” Simon dropped back down beside him, though now there was an able distance between the two men.

_It’s not like there haven’t been scares before, though I wish those scares were because of Charlie._

“You know, uh,” John began, rolling the words about in his mouth. He didn’t get very far. “We... we should watch it, it could ‘appen. Never know.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

John watched Simon blink back the thought, he couldn’t mess this night up anymore.   
  


  
“Johnny.”

“Yeah?”

Simon hesitated. “Does that, your little outburst mean, good Lord. You want a baby all of a sudden? That now a thing?”

“Because Claire’s out of the picture and you still want one?”

“What?!”

“No! Maybe... y-yes?” He stammered, cursing inwardly.

“You said you weren’t stoned, John.”

If there was a reaction from the front man, to John wanting to ‘suddenly’ be his fairy godmother and grant all his wishes to go to the ball; John didn’t hear it.

“Flaky as ever. Get some rest John. We’ll stop by your place first thing.”

“And a morning after pill from _Boots_ , eh?” He sniggered, cursing himself for even having spoken.

“Don’t joke ‘bout that, Johnny.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m sorry, Simon.” He chortled, trying to find that sleep space.

It eluded him. John stared blankly at the ceiling all night, watching the occasional light from a passing car waltz it’s way through the crack in the drawn curtains. He couldn’t tell Simon, he couldn’t think about what he wanted. His mind was too cloudy, he can’t see... Simon?


	28. Try Not To Bruise It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After what feels like waiting FOREVER, finally we have band doing band stuff content!!

Kicking, screaming, John hollered through the immense pain; surrounded by white. Hands going where no hands should go, his own clutching tight to the man beside him, threatening to break a bone. And then, he groaned in exhaustion, elation, tossing his head back and sweating incredulously. He was shivering, tears clouding his vision; the only sound he could hear was that of little cries, gut wrenching cries. Ones that had his heart in a vice.

He reached forward, shakily; beckoning them over. They were shining, crying up a storm but still shining. The dam broke free as finally he caught them, a shivering mess as they came to lay atop of his shoulder, arms cradling the small but precious life. Tears were being swept from his face, he was searching for hungry and parted lips.

He was searching for Simon’s lips as he held, cherished, held to the heavens; their one and only—

John screamed as he awoke, fingering about the wet sheets. Heart thudding wilder than wild in his chest, he hastily swept the sweat from his brow and fell back against the headboard panting. He knocked over the bottle beside him on the bedside cabinet, knocking a fresh batch of white powder to the floor. Deluded, by his incredibly vivid dream. A _delivery_ like no other.

Thankfully he was alone in Knightsbridge. He didn’t have to try and explain himself.  
  


  
***  
  


“I’m afraid it’s bad news, lads.”

A universal, audible gulp dropped. As did the mood.

John’s mind began to rattle off that mental checklist: wondering what in blinking hell could’ve fallen through this time that had the bosses so mad they called them in first thing that Tuesday morning.

An already splitting band formed about the white glass table, disappointment bouncing off of the high ceilings and white walls of _EMI_. John, opposite and to the left of Russel at the head of the table; shunned himself back into his seat, slumping, listening to what he had to say.

“The funding, boys, it’s just…” _not there._ Russel broke off, so John finished his sentence for him.

His eyes were wide, then dropping in sorrow. John could tell, watching as one of his aides helped him out, probably the guy from finance, in delivering another harsh blow.

“It’s not happening. The film production for _The Wild Boys,_ guys, has fallen through.”

John’s gaze flickered over each band member. He could’ve sworn there was a sigh of relief from Nick, still tan from wherever the hell he and Julie Anne had escaped too after their wedding day. Though Andy did appear more than a little disappointed, as did Roger.

It was one of those tracks where the Taylor boys really got to shine.

With a huff, angrily crossing and uncrossing his legs; John wasn’t exactly ready for another nail to his coffin. Though he kept himself from exploding, harshly swallowing each lump in his throat when it got a little too close to flinging itself from his pinky lips.

“So what does that mean for us then?” Roger piped up.

“We’ve invested a lot of unnecessary time into that track.” Nick bellowed.

“Duran as the Wild Boys? Who’d even _buy_ it?” Simon sniggered, John knowing immediately that he meant buying into the image they were trying to sell.

The record itself would fly off the shelves, chicks would catfight for the last copy in store. He knew that.

“Is it worth tossing out the sheet music we have for other instrumentals?” Andy, voice grating, stated; sunglasses barely dulling the fury in his eyes. “That’s a lot of bleedin’ work gone to pot there, Mulcahy.”

“A lot of shit we’ve put each other through whilst trying to enjoy those weddings.” Simon spat.

His bleary gaze flung over to Simon, who was sat next to him though still an apt metre or so away. They were all well spread out here. John’s brows furrowed, before throwing his body back around to face Russel upfront. He had no idea what had written itself over Simon’s face, like thunder, so dark that it had John’s guts twisting.  
  


“He’s right. They’ve slaved over hours in that studio, trying to get you a film soundtrack…” Simon surprised him, voice taught, raising to his feet. “And _you_ wanted _our_ involvement to sell this project, our musical asses, to potential buyers.”

**_I’m just a musical prostitute, my dear._ ** _Isn’t that what Freddie Mercury had once said?_

“Yeah, you know,” John’s brows raised in haste, wondering why he was even speaking. “What ever happened to all that bollocks?” Silence. “Usin’ _us_ , our star power an’ all that to get the bloody film contract signed, you know?”

_It damn feels like it, Fred._

There was a scoff, Simon didn’t back down. Neither did John, now both towering over Russel with their palms planted firmly on the table.

With a shaky glance the guitarist’s way, Taylor Telepathy, Andy too stood up to put his foot down.

“Our song, Wild Boys, is almost complete. What are we meant to do with it now?”

“Finish it.”

The three front men whirled around. Some _EMI_ big wig, John couldn’t recall the name so didn’t waste his time in trying to remember, boomed from behind them. Crossing his arms, narrowing his gaze.

“Finish it, _EMI_ will still back it. Sooner rather than later.”

Another stuffy geezer in a stuffy suit with a handlebar moustache perked up. “Get your asses back in that studio, finish it and get us a demo tape by Friday. Then we’ll see ‘bout a release.”

“Friday?!”

“Yeah.”

“Today’s _Tuesday?!_ ” Nick screeched.

_“_ Enough flack, Rhodes. _EMI_ and our US partner _Capitol_ has invested enough dough in you lot these last four years, don’t make us regret that dosh now.” They boomed, shaking the whole room.

_Money laundering pigs._

“You want a single, or to _shelve it_ for the next album?” To hell with it, John thought, throwing them right in the deep end.

The two _EMI_ thugs just glared.

With a cough, John continued: “you know _Arena_ could use one more. As you buggers scrapped the live tape of _Girls On Film_.”

“And _New Moon On Monday_.” Nick spat, defecting to John and Simon’s side of the giant white glass table.

A cocky laugh, “we did you all a _favour_ by gettin’ rid of that last one. It was a disaster. Didn’t we Roger?”

Roger, who John had noted, was simply staring into space whilst mindlessly playing with the hem of his shirt. _EMI_ bigwig #1 clamped a huge hand on his shoulder, jolting the drummer to life. Who sputtered a barely audible _no_.

“No?”

Another deathly wave of silence crashed over the group. It would take moments for the Durans to retaliate.

“You guys get that fuckin’ track to demo standard by Friday, that’s two night off of ya wild coke parties and piss ups to present us with something worth its release.”

_Ah, coke._

Needless to say the five men left that meeting enraged, outraged, disrespected and disregarded. Simon took it out on kicking the door shut. John himself taking it out on a no longer so prized ornamental hanging lamp.

_Wait, coke?_

Smashing his fist through it, he screeched before hightailing it out of there; ducking under Simon’s arm: groaning through the brain-splitting pain in his wrist.

“What the fuck, John?!”

_Fuck!_

“Are you mad?!”

Rounding a corner, sending the rest of the band running, Simon yanked him by the mullet. Shoving them both into the first abandoned closet they could find.

“John?” He panted, John panted. “What the shit was that?!”

  
  


John didn’t look down to his hand, knowing there was a small trickle of blood running down his wrist.

“John? I said, what the shit was that crap in there? We haven’t had a bloomin’ _fight_ with management like that in forever?”

John steadied himself, looming into Simon’s space.

“John? What the fuck did we just agree to— ooh!”

Slamming his eager lips into Simon’s, John backed him into a corner; knocking whatever the hell and sending whatever the hell crashing to the floor. The bassist forced his tongue inside, swirling, licking up and down Simon’s mouth; prying and prodding, daring the singer to regain control and to deepen the kiss.

Without a breath, John was flipped and pinned, shoved deeper into the corner, nose smushed into it.

“Ch—Charlie?” He panted, feeling the strain. Or was he woozy from the bleeding hand?

A click. John straightened up. The door. The locked door.

“Here, now.” Simon boomed.

Spinning around, John didn’t catch his breath before Simon stole it again: running his hands all over the bassist, thrusting his tongue in deeper and making John keen. Those fingers were everywhere, running hot and raking over John’s neck. John was whining, hands fumbling to reach for Simon, to shed his clothes and knead his flaming skin.

Four beats, John’s trousers were yanked down, his underwear followed.

Four beats, John’s hands were in Simon’s hair, shoving his trousers to the ground, a hand in those boxers.

“Fuck, John!” His front man screeched, as John nipped and sucked at his neck. Tugging at Simon fast, thrusting his own hips forward. “Get… get on ya knees.”

John obeyed, knees hitting the floor with a thud.


	29. Buy Time, Don’t Lose It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Near thirty chapters and finally more actual band stuff.

He immediately swallowed Simon, gagging as he shoved in all that he could into John’s throat. John yelped, Simon shivering in his mouth, as two huge hands raked through his mullet; angling John to Simon’s liking. John was sucking with force, lightly scraping his teeth over the weeping head. Pulling off with a groan, to lap up those juices.

“Fuckin’ _hell,_ Johnny.” Simon bellowed as John took him in again.

He was quick about it, knowing Simon needed it fast. Sloppy, wild and untamed. John hollowed his cheeks and sucked as deep as he could go; grabby hands fooling Simon’s balls into letting go. Into a messy release, scorching hot, Simon shot his load right at the back of John’s throat. Gagging, he took it all like a man; a warmth pooling in his stomach that he knew was Simon, all of Simon, sticky seed coating John’s lips in a fine and sloppy wet sheen.

John was yanked up, Simon’s mouth slamming straight into him, tongue prying. John shoved the taste of Simon back into his mouth as Simon’s hands shot down, too fast, too restless. Reckless and so hungered, he bought John off with three rough strokes; John whining and crying out; pulling away to drop his heavy head onto Simon’s sweaty shoulder, as John painted his hands in his juices.

Shivering, jittering, the bassist slumped over his front man: determined to come down. They quickly dressed, Simon wrapping his own tie around John’s bleeding palm. The cuts weren’t deep, though stitching may be needed. John didn’t think about that, he couldn’t, his mind was far too cloudy with what they’d just done.

He could’ve sworn his stomach flipped. He felt so full, so warm, knowing that seed was inside him. Not where it needed to be for anything life altering or _drastic_ change but inside him still meant something.

Anything but inconspicuous, the two slipped out of the closet with their hands brushing. In a real 180 of character; the rush of the fight from the office bleeding from them both, John’s somewhat bandaged palm brushed past Simon’s, his heart soaring as it was eased into Simon’s own.

Neither man cared who saw them, hand in hand, riding high on their own release. Simon was massaging John’s aching palm and comforting him as he hissed through the pain.

They caught up with the rest of the band upfront and waited for their limousine; the tell tale sign from Nick – John was sure his eyes were glassy and his cheeks still red – that the three of them knew exactly what they had just done.

That didn’t matter, John thought with a chuckle. To _AIR Studios_ it was, painfully so.

***  
  


**_Wild Boys! Wild Boys! Wild Boys!_ **

The office erupted in hearty laughter, jaws dropping and fists slamming tables.

**_Wild!_ **

“You, you fuckin’…”

**_Boys!_ **

“… well done, gents. The press’ll have a fit when they hear this one.”

The hoard of tired Durans brightened the fuck up.

“Get to mixing it immediately. _Arena_ will be released in two months though this should go out first, as a single.”

Thank God.

“Got any live footage for Side B?”

“Surely there’s something left over from the Toronto gig?”

“Yeah but you shelved—” John cackled, watching Nick kick the back of Andy’s shin for speaking. “Never mind.”

“ _Careless Memories?_ ”

“No, we released that one.”

“We did?” John asked, silently asking Simon for affirmation.  
  


By holding his hand, behind his back.

“Yeah Johnny, with Hungry.”

_Like The Wife…_

“ _Cracks In The Pavement? Of Crime And Passion?_ ”

“There ya go!” An _EMI_ guy belted, giving them the thumbs up.

John straightened up, poorly covering it with a cough. His palm was being massaged, skin deeply knead.

“You know the drill. A couple chart shows in Europe, miming the track, get some international appeal. Release it, climb the charts. Video.”

There was a collective sign of something from each Duran. John couldn’t tell if it was all good.

“Video? With—”

“— It’s all set up,” Nick pouted as he was steamrolled right over. “Russel’ll do it.”

“But The Wild Boys film adaptation fell through?”

“That it did, Andy, though sets are bein’ made now for you guys. At Pinewood.”

_007 Stage?!_ John was practically bouncing, creaming himself over the thought. The possibility.

As though the _EMI_ guy could actually read the bassist’s mind, he confirmed with fervour. “Yes John, the James Bond stage.”

“Mother fucker, let’s get too it, Bon!” John cackled, slapping Simon’s shoulder with his free hand.

_Bon?_

“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, aren’t ya Johnny?” Simon chuckled, as John bought his hands back to his leather coated sides. “The James Bond stage…”

_The names Bon._

“Mix it. Bring it. Promote it. Release it. You know the drill boys, a video is calling.”

_Simon. Le Bon._

“Just don’t go chuckin’ any of ya’s off of any boats this time. John.”

_HOT!_

“John.” The voice repeated.

_Wait what?_

“Oh yeah… right. No boats.” John shook his head, casting a wry glance through to the guitarist’s way.


	30. You Send Your Senses, Streaming Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really could be a little solo add in but to hell with it. This is the last of the softness. Then, it’s Wild Boys time!!

“I’ve got a surprise for you!” Simon half sang, lightly tapping John’s nose before kissing him awake.

Groggy, face half smushed into his blue sheets, “you mornin’ bastard… Ugh, can’t you give me just five more—”

“—Absolutely not!” Simon declared, hauling John’s sleepy body up to seated.

“What’s so important that you ‘ad to wake me up at…” John broke off, hunting for his glasses atop of the bedside table. “Seven… Seven somethin’ AM?!”

“I was too excited, alright!”

“When are you _not_ excited, Charlie?” Finally, his voice was beginning to sound like John again. Less croaky and whiny.

Out of nowhere, Simon brandished a small piece of paper; shoving it into John’s hand. Quizzical, he studied it briefly; before throwing a confused look the singer’s way.

“You pull that outta your arse, or?”

Simon, who no longer looked so jolly, began to explain. “Look, I don’t think I mentioned but I’d been to a couple jewellers looking for something to buy for Claire and these guys saw I was interested, they gave me a voucher.”

John cocked a brow. “And this concerns me, how?”

Simon, the bassist could tell, refrained from slapping him. “Well, since I ain’t buying any _rings_ now; I thought you could.”

“Rings? For…”

“Or I could buy you one.”

Now John was fully awake.

Sensing the surprise: “no, no! Not an engagement ring for you, you moron. I meant, you’ve been on about gettin’ yourself some bling a while and I want to treat ya. So why not?”

John thought it through – the whole Naples fiasco no longer so fresh in his mind.

“A pinky ring, an insignia ring… whatever Johnny. You’ve been after them for a while, remember?”

John was smiling now, now Simon was clutching his hand.

With a hum, “yeah okay. That could be fun! _Westfields_?”

“Shepherd’s Bush.” Simon nodded.

“So we’re gonna get mauled by the paparazzi at the jewellers, then?” John giggled, he couldn’t deny the excitement flooding his veins.

“Nope. I called ahead, knowing you’d agree.”

“Knowin’ I’d what?!”

Simon’s laughter was rhythmical, melodic. “Knowing you’d wanna go, I called ahead and have the joint shut for a couple hours because rockstars can do that cack. So haul ass.”

***  
  


Strolling around the jewellers without an undeserving bird in mind was something new on all fronts, John smiled to himself as he thought it over. Though he wasn’t too sure what he was after, the craving had been nagging at him a while: some bling. A little something, to draw more female attention to his hands.

And to hell with it, Simon loved his jewellery. And John loved him, why not try it?

He followed Simon’s footsteps and together they gravitated to silver, John immediately deciding that the darker grey-ish sheen better suited his pasty palette.

Together they picked out a simple band, John opting to have the words _call it paradise_ engraved on the inside. A subtle serif font, nothing too brash. After bidding their jeweller farewell, clutching tight to the small bag with his ring inside; together they headed up before John broke away to head to the loo.

Surprisingly; they were alone.

Chuckling, the goodie bag was snatched from John; his gaze wide as his sights were set on the ring Simon now held. And then, now laughing hysterically, Simon was on one knee: presenting John with his gift.

“Some people call it a one night stand, but we…” Simon signalled for him to finish the lyric.

Blushing, chuckling through his few words, “can call it _paradise!”_ John held out his right hand as the ring slid its way down. _A perfect fit,_ he noted with a grin. And then, his heart was in his chest, Simon kissed the ring. John could’ve fainted, pulling away, giggling softly.

_That was in no means a proposal, none of it. Maybe a proposal for a good shag later…_

John yanked Simon up by the ever growing mullet, reeling him in good and proper. Their lips collided, tongues brushing, John driving himself into madness over the drug that was Simon’s lips. The drug that was the saliva pooling on Simon’s tongue: drinking it up, thrusting it back into the singer’s mouth. He pulled away, panting harshly; before turning to the long bathroom mirror.

John’s skin was bright red, his hair was rumpled and eyes glassy, pulling away at the pad of footsteps behind him. And Simon was in a similar state, the bassist couldn’t think of a more beautiful sight.

“You know,” Simon’s voice dropped, dangerously, watching as a couple lads left them there, “we… some crazy how are still _alone_ …”

John couldn’t hide the flaming blush in his face, emotions at their height. Now he was brushing his new bling adorned little finger up and down Simon’s chest; a single glance to the bathroom stall…

Needless to say, John’s lips were raw from biting down on them so hard; barely able to stifle his scream as he came all over Simon’s fingertips.


	31. The Wild Boys Are Calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the finale stretch! Enjoy the _wilder than wild _ride.__

_Wild Boys_ was the next thing on the list. The band welcomed October 1984 with a crucial recording schedule, finalising plans and hiring backing dancers, stuntmen, costume, hair and makeup. In the midst of random performances, nothing ever as notorious as _Top Of The Pops,_ around the globe. Photoshoots, interviews… the usual. Though, if John was truly honest with himself, he noticed more and more changes.

The tiredness, losing the will to live and perform as a group. He clearly was not the only one feeling the strain. Of course, the bassist kept mute.

In a continuation to the deathly, dreary, daring and even ravishing post apocalyptic _Arena_ : Wild Boys would be made for the masses, they’d stop at nothing to have this erotic fantasy get the neon green light. The set was planned unlike anything John had ever known. Unlike anything Duran had ever known. Each added accessory was another feather in Russel’s director cap; another hand forcibly grabbing their purse strings. Each added accessory meant ‘cha-ching’; the budgets were far past blown.

_No wonder no film studio would pick up the check for Russel’s scheme. It’s madness!_

Now there the bassist sat, getting all pretty and shit; hand in hand with Simon who was perched in the makeup chair to his left. Who was more than happy to sneak a cheeky little kiss, once the makeup woman’s back was turned.

Eyeing him, voice light and airy, “you know you do look good with that stubble.”

A chuckle, “you would be right there, Johnny.”

“Better than the _murder – murder murder - by the roadside!_ It’s only for the video, ain’t it?” John posed, eyes on his makeup artist who began her quest for his concealer. Then, lowering his voice even further; “I like you smooth, kissin’ you _smooth_.”

“You know I would rock a beard, Johnny.”

A hesitation.

“Johnny, you _know_ I would rock a beard.”

“Awww, isn’t that an adorable lovers tiff.”

John’s pupils engorged, as the camera flash momentary blinded him.

“Shove off, Bates.” He was blinking irritably, bringing his hands up to rub at his irritated eyes.  
  


The keyboardist only chuckled, before lining the camera back up to capture another cute couple moment.

“Get back to sticking them gems on your outfit.” John stated, wanting to smack Nick round the back of that pretty head.

“It’s not my fault the original costuming for me was completely inadequate. It looked nothin’—”

Simon picked up where Nick didn’t get the chance to leave off. “— Like the rest of our costumes, yes!” He practically sang, John giggling slightly.

“A _tunic?!_ Hell no.” Nick rolled his heavenly lined eyes, before spinning about and strutting away. Though that didn’t stop John from jumping up when he tossed back: “Charlie _would_ absolutely rock that beard.”

_Le Beard. Good God!_

“Maybe thirty years from now. Don’t make me picture that, luv.”

Next they were off to wardrobe, John inwardly screaming as their assistants lead Simon one way and John another. His dressing room was buzzing, there was champagne on ice and a sea of what appeared to be metal, chain mail, leather and steel awaiting his pasty skin.

John’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas, as did other parts of him.

Stepping forward, he couldn’t hide the small groan that fell from his lips; running his calloused fingertips across his boxy leather jacket. The leather was smooth, rich; ribbed and ready to go. It had been embroidered with metal flakes, he supposed he could call them, adding a rough sense of danger to an already sure to be striking look.

Slipping on his leather trousers he choked off a moan, knowing that Simon was doing the same mere metres away. Getting himself excited over his more than a little erotic and suggestive costume. The man at his side helped to fasten his belt and handed him stark black… _bracelets? No John, they’re bangles. Oh okay, bangles. Like Asians wear? Not exactly, they’re Indians. Ah._

He jingled his wrist, liking the small clanking sound the jewellery made. The bassist made a mental note, to pick up some for himself. Or to steal them, maybe. He had caught a whiff of the new jewellery trend, though he wondered if that trend was a little more American. They really complimented his little paradise ring…

Back to reality, he let out a small squeal. Talented hands were running up and down his legs, smoothing out the kinks in the fabric; John needed to break in the leather somewhat. It was good leather, stiff and proper. John was inwardly praying for those hands to either palm the hard on that was damn constricting or to not even notice the situation _rising_ between them as he choked off another groan.

John was getting worked up, slipping into his suede boots. The chains clinked when he walked. The man did up the zips, resting on his knees; it took every ounce of strength for John to not shove his hands in the man’s golden mane and reel him in. Giving him a face first of aching cock.

The wardrobe aide rose up to standing, John watching him with engorged eyes and a slightly parted mouth.

Together they stripped him of his so-called _triangle dad shirt;_ peeling the blue cotton from his chest. Though he shunned away a little here, refraining from covering the new found stretches of skin and ever growing beer gut. Hardened nipples begging for touch.

John was handed a tight black vest, with large sleeve holes and shoulder pads. He slipped it on, lightly brushing his left nipple; unable to fully keep himself away. Then came the jacket, which in itself weighed him down.

“Holy shit!” He stumbled, dropping to floor, right on the guy who caught him with a laugh.

“It’s heavy, isn’t it Sir?”

“It’s… yeah it is, you know… its uh…”

Another breath and John’s head wiped itself clear of anything smart to say. He was clutching aimlessly at the man; who’s golden mullet was gleaming and bright blue eyes widening as John was leaning closer, lips pursed. And closer.

“The fuck?!”

John sprang back, hot.

“You a fag, JT?” He cursed, yanking himself away.

“No! Uh, n-not no… but uh,” John tossed his head back with a sniff, blinking away the tears that he didn’t know were forming.

_What the hell was that, you moron?!_

Every thought came rushing up to slap him in the face. That was _cheating_ , that was a weak moment; too turned on from his own costume, the set, the next to nude dancers and other strange alien type creatures he’d encountered on the way.

_Sexcrime, huh?_

To the muscled blonde who’d stood before him, knelt before him, following his orders and words. With striking cobalt eyes, ones that he could see his reflection in, as his own eyes clouded over in mist.

_Nineteen Eighty-Four._

Then, remembering that he was John Fucking Taylor, he manned the fuck up; screaming at the aide to get the hell out. To send Simon in.

The door opened and was kicked shut, John breathing heavily as that special sound of a latch being fastened was music to his ears. He was faced with the back of the singer, all dressed up, mullet strands springing out into all directions.

Simon’s costume was fantastic. A half destroyed leather jacket with the sleeve torn, too many zips and studs to count. Bullets adorned his right arm – _the more muscular one, obvious reasons_ – right under a shoulder pad of those metal flakes: matching the ones on John’s jacket. His trousers were black, tight fitting and far too revealing. If John squinted, he could make out a dried hand print on Simon’s thigh; knowing full well he’d put more on him if he had the chance.

And had paint.

_Sexcrime_.

For whatever reason he was dragging chains. Chains that belonged on a boat or something. Those leather knee pads… John dropped all he was holding, he didn’t even know what he had been holding, locking gazes. Heated glares glaring daggers at him.

John lurched himself forward, reeling his dolly in by the hair. Sucking into that mouth, he twitched as a hasty hand shot down the front of his leathers: struggling to peel them away. Knowing he couldn’t get anything on them, nor mess up his makeup, John hastily began to retreat; knowing he was fighting a losing battle.

_Nineteen Eighty-Four!_

“God Charlie I,” he gulped, “I… _fuck!_ ”

There was a laugh, John feeling himself swell, “save it for the _Volvo_ , Johnny.”

And with that Simon - _the goddamn tease!_ \- was gone.

“Bastard.” He grunted.

Panting, face flush, John turned to face himself in the full length mirror. He righted the jacket’s lapels, fingertips scorching as up and down the metal plates they ran. He winced as he caught a sharp edge. Somehow, it was too much. Too macho, even. Far away from the infamous camp vibes he’d settled on years ago for this band. Sure they had to evolve with their looks for each and every album but something, a dash of extra John was needed.

A sprinkle of campy glitter.

John headed to his hold-all, knowing that he had packed the right garment just for this. The fabric felt like heaven, he draped the rich silken ruby scarf around him; tucking it into his belt loops. In true _Sing Blue Silver_ fashion, he let the scarf flow any which way he wanted, the striking colour really complimenting the silver.

“Bitchin’!”

It was also enough of a _faggot statement,_ he noted with a sly grin. Hands in his pockets, John debated a final time whether to take care of straining business in those leathers or to…

“Save it for the _Volvo_ , eh Charlie?” He cried, grabbing the last of his things from the dressing room.


	32. On Their Way Back From The Fire

Chains clinked, heads throbbed, pulses ran hotter as the lights went down. Metal clashed, restraints latched tight. The drums pounded and the synths screamed, penetrating deep into his disturbed soul. Into a dangerous, perverse and homoerotic corruption: _reckless and so hungered_.

He was locked in tight.

His subconscious weld him to the _Volvo_ and kept him there. Bloodshot eyes were wide and fixed to the vices on screen, barely able to tear themselves away. From how pretty he once was. Laughing at the mess of a man he had become.

He slammed his head back. Once.

The screams of pure horror, the gasps of disbelief. The sounds raw, sneaking up on him, cornering him, signalling him out as _helpless_ , _useless_. The shame pounced, pounced like a tiger.

Twice.

The water filled his ears, also, drowning every last feeling to a numbness so foreign and frightening as he saw it: the wheel, the body. Bound, tightly wound. The victim was plunged into the murky black, held hostage to the vile crashing of the roaring waves. Having never chosen this way.

Thrice.

The struggle, the victim slipping further into the deep. He could hear the men jumping in after him, diving with reckless abandon to free the shackles of the wheel’s vice-like grip.

He fell out the grip.

John held on for dear life, tears brimming as a limp, pale, lifeless figure breeched the surface; his metal chest plate ripped and discarded. Hair skewed, jaw slack.

Ladders gathered, help came.

On the razors edge they trailed, Simon’s _murder by the roadside._

_***  
  
_

**_Wild Boys! Wild Boys! Wild Boys!_ **

“We thought we fuckin’ lost you!”

“What the shit happened there?”

**_Wild!_ **

“John, you said he was held under? Look at him, he’s fine?”

“Charlie, you insane?!”

**_Boys!_ **

The whole band were in an uproar. The wheel, the bloody wheel had stopped. The front man held his breath, shaking himself free – John had no idea what happened there. Another mess, another damn expensive mess.

“If Simon drowned…” Andy stuttered, unshielded gaze on John, hovering metres above him. “Bloody hell.”

Did John mean the set, or losing Simon?

“Get me down, then fuck off all of you!” John screeched, a hoard of worried crew and cast immediately coming to his aide.

“It’ll take too long to get you back into that harness, John. You’ve gotta finish the—”

“—Does it look like I give a toss, ‘bout finishing the shot, Nick? Gemme down, you get back in your bird cage right fucking now!” 

John was a wreck, even more so than Simon. Who was shivering, clutching tight to the bassist after filming his ice water scene. With the alien, ready to knock his lights out he was so scared.

“Now, beat it!” The bassist screeched, the crowd disappearing. “What the fuck were you thinking, Simon?!”

“Nigel, don’t lash out on him—”

“—Just fuck _off_ , Master Bates!”

He tried to act like the snooty look Nick gave him didn’t hurt, as the keyboardist strut away.


	33. In August’s Moon, Surrendered Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Two Tribes go to war...

John shoved the front man to a secluded corner, bottom lip trembling; shoving his tongue into Simon’s parted mouth. Tasting more than just the water, the escaped death, the adrenaline and fear on that tongue.

“I thought I’d… fuckin’ lost you!”

He kissed it into his skin, ice cold.

“And I just ‘ad to sit there, slamming me head into that car whilst you… you… fuck!”

John let a tear slip.

Simon was right behind him, breathing heavily.

He was wrapped in a towel, still shivering in John’s grasp. John waved the last of the crew off, _he_ would be checking Simon over. Only him.

“There’s no… n-no…”

John claimed those lips again, Simon’s teeth were chattering in his hold.

“God, Johnny… there’s no time…”

“No time to _shoot_ yeah, we’re done. We’re more than fuckin’ _done_.”

A stage hand ran up to them, the shoot was over for today.

“Shall we get outta this stuff?” Simon’s voice was small, eyes glassy and tone distant.

“No! You asshole! Don’t you see what fuckin’ happened to you?” He bellowed, riling Simon up. “They were fuckin’ gonna _leave_ you up there! You… you know you, you wanted to be there! Such a stupid stunt, baby. What the fuck?!”

“John, I—”

“—Don’t!” John pushed himself away, shuddering. “I thought I’d fucking lost you, you bastard!”

“You think…” a deathly pause. A snigger, “course you think it’s my fault, huh? That the wheel stopped!”

John span around, voice like thunder. “I don’t care ‘bout the fuckin’ wheel! They should’ve checked it proper, instead you just clambered straight up the bleeding thing! You ain’t invincible and I… fucking hell, Simon, I—”

“—Need me alive, huh?”

John shrunk back. That was cold.

“Haven’t you ever stopped to bloody think about what _I_ put myself through for this band? For these damn videos?” His face was dark, eyes bloodshot and breath coming too quick. “Eh, John? Do you?!”

John shook his head, cheeks flaming.

“Course not. None of you fuckers have the guts. I do what I do, it works.”

Stammering, “the hell do you mean?”

“Christ.” Simon’s blood was boiling, in a way John didn’t like one bit. “Running around Sri Lanka, getting trussed up and swimming in a freaking _swamp_ for Hungry. You said it yourself: it’s the most a frontman’s ever acted for a video. In _Rio_ I fell and badly bruised my back, off the pier. For Union, I was riding a horse atop a bloody sand bank. Which… I fell down! You lot, you don’t have the guts to put yourselves out there and you fricking know it, John.”

John fidgeted, uncomfortable.

“I have to carry these videos through.”

John fidgeted, uncomfortable.

“I, y’know, I… I rode an elephant.”

“We all did! We just didn’t want to be called _faggots_ for riding in soggy pairs!” John felt that hand clamp down on his shoulder, stopping him from walking away. “Christ, you’re such a wimp. I did what I did, the fuckin’ wheel stopped. Be glad that I can hold my breath and not panic!”

“Not panic! Don’t you get that…” _you scare me at times?_

“That I upset you?” There was a scoff, John watched those arms fold and towel drop. “Do you really want to start that fight now? _What_ are you on, John?”

_Nothing, surprisingly._

“John!”

“Nothin’, Jesus!”

The look Simon tossed his way wasn’t convinced. _Bollocks_.

“What are we even fightin’ over, Simon?”

“Beats me.” There was a scoff, then silence.

His retort was unwarranted. “It was my idea to be tied to a _car_ , you prick.”

A fist was raised.

“Then, get back on it.”

The fist was dropped.

“What?”

“I said,” Simon sent a dark glare up, then around.

The 007 stage was filing out, they were surely alone in John’s little perverted cubby hole.

“John, get the fuck back up there.”

John’s heart was in his throat.

Simon span him around, throwing John straight into the side of the upturned car, swatting his ass with force. John cried out as he was swatted again, groaning harshly. A hand on his belt, a hand in his hair.

“You love bein’ tied down. We have the perfect opportunity.” Those lips were spitting venom.

“Fuck!” John groaned, low and guttural. He was being pushed down, whining, knowing that he would be giving in within moments. “ _Yes_.”

He was released, hauled up to standing and shoved around with force. The ladder was right there, John inhaled a shaky breath.

Panting heavily, John ascended up the ladder. Skin alight with sparks, with that hot and heavy touch, those imprints and teeth ready to leave their mark, scraping his suddenly needy body. Simon was right behind him, shoving him up.

“You don’t want too? You better—”

John slapped his cheek, then immediately grabbed it; yanking Simon down to thrust his tongue inside. _Faster Than Light._

“I fuckin’… fuckin’ _want_ it.”

Left arm strapped.

“Fuckin’… _give_ it to me!”

Right arm strapped.

“Destroy me already! You’ve done a damn fine job of almost _dyin’_ on me today, you know, so… so ugh!” John barked, shocking himself with his boldness. “Gimme that tiny death.”

Legs spread.

“Make it fast… m-make… make it _hurt!_ ”

For those next few crucial moments, the man before him wasn’t his partner. His luv. There’d be no support, no mutual love and respect.

“You gotta fuckin’ _earn_ it, John.”

He needed it, they both did. They needed it fast, hard and dirty; juices splattering against the car as John would be drilled into it.

Hands in his leathers.

“ _Work_ for it.”

For those few moments: Simon wasn’t Simon. That didn’t matter, who he was.

“Condom, back pocket.”

Leathers yanked down.

“I knew we’d be needin’ it.”

“Shut up, poofter.”

Leathers tossed aside.

He was groaning, thrusting upwards best he could. Arms spread wide, he lay helpless, barely able to crane his neck up to find those lips. Those lips were biting at his ear, running down his neck, yanking him. John hissed, bucking upwards; eyes rolling back and throat exposed.

He whined, being pressed down into the car; hissing as two fingers plummeted down to penetrate him. They were fast, ruthless, causing a riot as John cried out, fluids flowing free. The wrapper was ripped, music to his ears, he was panting heavily; seeing that trouser zip being yanked down. _Of course he was going commando in there, no need for another yellow underwear frenzy -_ erect member springing free.

“You ready?” The voice was gruff.

“Fuckin’… God!” John cried out, being entered before giving further consent. _Kill me…_


	34. A Dust Cloud On The Rise

Two rough hands gripped him, clawing at the metal; clutching tight to the slippery surface. Hooking both legs around his chain mail clad own, Simon settled his knee at one side to steady himself, not just so he could yank those legs higher and thrust in deeper.

  
John was bound tight, lanky arms spread and bucking against the top of the car. His metal chest plate screeched atop of the _Volvo_ , as he arched his back and slammed himself back down into it. His head was thrown back, eyes screwed tight and mouth agape: curses, moans, threats for Simon to move faster; to penetrate him deeper, to make a mess and to wreck him: rolling sweet off of his sour tongue.

Simon had to hook his hands around John’s arms, sliding past the restraints to stop himself from sliding further down. He battled with the angle, his eyes blinded by lust and brain clogging his better judgement as he took John deeper; faster, pounding his hips into the sleek car roof.

John was close, they both were. The sight of John being strung up for hours throughout the shoot were unbearable, too stimulating, proving ruthless on Simon’s own wandering mind. Never mind what John had to deal with that day, before it all went to shit. Simon was strapped down lovingly too, bound tight and drawing the attention. John was wet with it, anticipation and eagerness; having been straining painfully for what felt like hours.

But that was then, this: the buckle of their hips even wilder than the wildest of rhythms, tongue desperately sucking at neck, running tender hands over metal-clad flesh... was now. John’s stupid red sash was no longer so stupid: another thing to wrap around John’s neck and expose that delectable, long throat. His metal collar pierced his neck, John screeched as he felt the blood pooling.

They were panting, crying and screaming, brown eyes blown wide as he tried to focus back on Simon. Simon, who was now looking at him. John slammed his head back atop of the car as the angle was ruthlessly changed, yanking his own legs up harder in response, hitting that sweet spot without remorse.

He ground his head again, as though the blaring synths accompanied it. Over and over, Simon fucking every last sensical thought out of his head. Drawing ever so dangerous to letting go, whining like a tit and John was making a show of it.

John was flushed, mussed, desperate to impale himself deeper; take himself further. Those hips were driving him from reason, he was ruthless, manic: hands clawing at his tan skin, nails raking across his palms. Teeth nipping and sucking, if he could Simon would surely have a hand round his neck now too. John wished he did.

Together they groaned, hips colliding, Simon buried all the way inside. John just lay there, helpless, bottom lip trembling, cock bobbing and pulse surging at the wild ministrations. Within moments Simon was moving again, as fast as he could, chains clinking and leather creaking: hammering into John with no restraint.

Within moments he was coming, eyes screwed shut and head banging atop of the _Volvo_. His back arched and pulse roared, taking all Simon gave him, screaming in relief. Pent up frustration, sweet nauseating relief. John whited out, wild, blinking black and red beneath his eyes. He was moaning again, wild, as he felt Simon convulse atop him. He felt the beads of sweat drop from his dirty blonde hair, that pretty mouth spewing pure filth as he let go. He longed to grab those strands, yanking Simon down to suck every last breath he could muster.

John was filled over and over, yanking his legs up even higher and burying his face in Simon’s sweaty neck.

He cursed, violently, before dropping John’s legs from around his hips and letting John take his weight. Simon fell atop him, panting and flushed, metal plates clanking as he hit him. John couldn’t feel anything, he was numb: ears ringing and mouth agape. He loved it, riding high on sensation, though he was itching to get Simon closer, keep him close.

Together they tried to steady their pulses but to no avail. The sight, the feel of John trussed up so was too powerful, how could Simon move away? There they lay, chests heaving, John’s hips perfectly in line with his front man’s. He basked in the closeness, the body heat and juices staining between them.

“I’m… fuck, Charlie, I’m…”

_Sorry for what I said._

“Shush shush,” Simon kissed it into his sweaty hair, “I know, it’s okay. I’m sorry I… I, God, almost _left_ you.”

_You wanna buy a boat and go near drown on me again?_

“You wanna buy a—” he cut himself off with a painful whine. “Nevermind.”

John raised his head at the hand that beckoned him, Simon crawling up John’s sinew body to kiss him. To share saliva and continue asserting his dominance, John let him stake claim; hands tight in his soggy brown strands. Reeling in his dolly closer, by the hair. By the hair.

“N-no…” John was still panting harshly, breaking the kiss. “No… no, I over-over reacted, luv, I’m _sorry_.”

“Yeah you did, you… fuck, you winded me good. Johnny, you little shit!”

Chuckling, John found the sudden strength to knee Simon’s stomach.

“Ooh! Christ, my Johnny.”

“Wild Boys always shine, huh? I finally know… fuckin’ hell, my arse!…” He would be rubbing it if he could reach it. “Fuck, I finally know what it means: _afterglow_.”

Simon could only laugh.

“Oh, Lordy Lordy…” John began, head lolling back to stare at the endless rigging, lights, sandbags and more lights above him. “I think we, think _I,_ just lost myself a cou-couple… couple _pounds_ this evening!”

Simon laughed, still breathless and beautiful.

“Now how, in bleedin’ Christ, do I get outta ‘ere?” He nodded to his strapped down and clammy palms, bangles jingling as he slammed his fist. Simon was still gripping desperately to John’s heaving chest. He tried to ignore his own semen now trailing languidly down his thigh. And metal jacket.

Sniggering, Simon snagged John’s ruby red scarf. To swipe his own sweat. He began his descent.

“Fuck, I was a… a _fountain!_ That dreams are made of!” John cackled, revelling in _the haze of the afterglow_. “It’s on me hip!”

“What a ride that was, eh? Like splash mountain or some shit.” Simon was laughing harder, still climbing down.

“Oi!” John called, embarrassment flaring on his already flushed cheeks. “C’mere you git!”


	35. Wild Boys Fallen Far From Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, beautiful friend...

Simon was shuffling ever so sexily down the ladder, waggling his ass, before dropping to the stage floor. He tucked himself in, not without yanking off the condom and tossing it far.

_“Crap.”_ He heard Simon curse.

“Ooh, you rip it?” John sniggered, catching sight of Simon brushing off the excess fluids now on his fingertips. “Eh, Char—Charlie! You can’t… fuck, you can’t just _leave_ me up here, y’know! Half naked with my cock out! Spent and all!”

Simon tossed it and John laughed, watching the condom somehow languidly floating so wonderfully atop of the pool. Though now John couldn’t really see Simon, he did have an aerial view of where his leather trousers had landed: in the ice cold water. Now covered in semen.

“Nice shot, huh?” He heard Simon, he didn’t see him.

“Wanker, tossed it right atop of me trousers!” John dropped his head and sore ass back into the car, wondering just how it had took both of their weight. “ _Simon!_ ”

There was a creak.

“Uh, Simon?” John began, voice wobbly.

A crash.

He was sinking to the ground.

“Simon! The car… she’s…”

He was thrown back with a jolt.

“She’s dropping back! I’ll get concussed if I ain’t getting down _now!_ ”

The car again shook, John literally held on for dear life.

John may be the one bound, grinding, head slamming against the _Volvo_ in the video but that didn’t stop him exploiting his biggest of vices: Simon Le Bon. That didn’t mean his luv’s name had to come up on his torture video, though.

“Simon, you bastard! Get me out of this thing, right now-wow!” He bellowed, growing frustrated. Losing sight of the front man.

_No, not in that way! I’m more than a little spent. You perverted fucker._

The car creaked again, sinking into the set further.

“Mother fucker!”

He’d be living out that torture, falling deeper and deeper victim to those insane steely blue eyes and those lusty pastel lips. The golden mane, talented hands and haunting lyrics.

“For the last freakin’ time, Simon, I swear down—”

John was cut off, the _Volvo_ crashing to the ground with a huge bang. Endless curses, a throbbing head and a shriek. Miraculously, the bassist could still just about remember his name.

  
“Simon!” The heat behind John’s eyes was burning. “Hey luv? _Luv!_ ”

***  
  


Those _Wild Boys_ hadn’t a clue about what they had just done. How their lives would change, tearing them apart with pitiful attempts at drawing them in closer. They’d make it work somehow, whether John was singing blue silver into the night; or gearing up to _dance into the fire,_ in the hopes of making it out alive. From opposite ends of the Earth, going it alone: they’d make it work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I’m sharing my finale scene. This one really has been a wild ride from the end of July right through the beginning of October for me. Writing this story and having other Hold Tight ones on the go have been very cathartic, a good stress reliever and a way to keep my imagination flowing. Though I’m sad to put this fic ‘to bed,’ I’m very happy with how this story has gone.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as always it’s means the world. ♥️♥️

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @duranarchy-in-the-uk  
> ❤️


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